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HREE PLAYS ^ ^^ 
OR PURITANS ^' 



THREE PLAYS 
FOR PURITANS 

BY BERNARD SHAW: 
BEING THE THIRD VOLUME 
OF HIS COLLECTED PLAYS 




CHICAGO AND NEW YORK 
HERBERT S. STONE AND 
COMPANY, MDCCCCI 



Library of Congressi 
Two COHtES fttCElVEO ! 

FEB 23 1901 

. Copyngflt «ntfy 

SKOND COPY 



l9ol 



COPYRIGHT,- 1900, BY 
HERBERT S. STONE & CO. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PREFACES 

Why for Puritans ? - - - - v 

On Diabolonian Ethics - - - - xx 

Better than Shakespear ? - - - xxviii 

THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE - - - - i 
a melodrama 

Notes ------- 86 

C^SAR AND CLEOPATRA - - - 93 
a page of history 

Notes 208 

CAPTAIN BRASSHOUND'S CONVERSION 219 
a play of adventure 

Notes ------- 308 



THREE PLAYS FOR PURITANS 

WHY FOR PURITANS? 

Since I gave my Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant, to the 
world two years ago, many things have happened to me. I 
had then just entered on the fourth year of my activity as 
a critic of the London theatres. They very nearly killed 
me. I had survived seven years of London's music, four 
or five years of London's pictures, and about as much of its 
current literature, wrestling critically with them with all 
my force and skill. After that, the criticism of the theatre 
came to me as a huge relief in point of bodily exertion. 
The difference between the leisure of a Persian cat and the 
labor of a cockney cab horse is not greater than the differ- 
ence between the official weekly or fortnightly playgoings 
of the theatre critic and the restless daily rushing to and fro 
of the music critic, from the stroke of three in the afternoon, 
when the concerts begin, to the stroke of twelve at night, 
when the opera ends. The pictures were nearly as bad. 
An Alpinist once, noticing the massive soles of my boots, 
asked me whether I climbed mountains. No, I replied: 
these boots are for the hard floors of the London galleries. 
Yet I once dealt with music and pictures together in the 
spare time of an active young revolutionist, and wrote plays 
and books and other toilsome things into the bargain. But 
the theatre struck me down like the veriest weakHng. I 
sank under it like a baby fed on starch. My very bones 
began to perish, so that I had to get them planed and 
gouged by accomplished surgeans. I fell from heights and 



vi Three Plays for Puritans 

broke my limbs in pieces. The doctors said : This man 
has not eaten meat for twenty years : he must eat it or die. 
I said : This man has been going to the London theatres for 
three years ; and the soul of him has become inane and is 
feeding unnaturally on his body. And I was right. I did 
not change my diet; but I had myself carried up into a 
mountain where there was no theatre ; and there I began to 
revive. Too weak to work, I wrote books and plays; 
hence the second and third plays in this volume. And now 
I am stronger than I have been at any moment since my 
feet first carried me as a critic across the fatal threshold of 
a London playhouse. 

Why was this ? What is the matter with the theatre, 
that a strong man can die of it ? Well, the answer will make 
a long story ; but it must be told. And, to begin, why 
have I just called the theatre a playhouse ? The well-fed 
Englishman, though he lives and dies a schoolboy, cannot 
play. He cannot even play cricket or football : he has to 
work at them : that is why he beats the foreigner who 
plays at them. To him playing means playing the fool. 
He can hunt and shoot and travel and fight ; he can, when 
special holiday festivity is suggested to him, eat and drink, 
dice and drab, smoke and lounge. But play he cannot. 
The moment you make his theatre a place of amusement 
instead of a place of edification, you make it, not a real 
playhouse, but a place of excitement for the sportsman and 
the sensualist. 

However, this well-fed grown-up-schoolboy Englishman 
counts for little in the modern metropolitan audience. In 
the long lines of waiting playgoers lining the pavements 
outside our fashionable theatres every evening, the men are 
only the currants in the dumpling. Women are in the 
majority ; and women and men alike belong to that least 
robust of all our social classes, the class which earns from 
eighteen to thirty shillings a week in sedentary employment, 
and lives in a dull lodging or with its intolerably prosaic 



Why for Puritans? vii 

families. These people preserve the innocence of the thea- 
tre : they have neither the philosopher's impatience to get 
to realities (reality being the one thing they want to escape 
from), nor the longing of the sportsman for violent action, 
nor the fullfed, experienced, disillusioned sensuality of the 
rich man, whether he be gentleman or sporting publican. 
They read a good deal, and are at home in the fool's para- 
dise of popular romance. They love the pretty man and 
the pretty woman, and will have both of them fashionably 
dressed and exquisitely idle, posing against backgrounds 
of drawingroom and dainty garden; in love, but senti- 
mentally, romantically; always ladylike and gentlemanlike. 
Jejunely insipid, all this, to the stalls, which are paid for 
(when they are paid for) by people who have their own 
dresses and drawingrooms, and know them to be a mere 
masquerade behind which there is nothing romantic, and 
little that is interesting to most of the masqueraders except 
the clandestine play of natural licentiousness. 

The stalls cannot be fully understood without taking 
into account the absence of the rich evangelical English 
merchant and his famxily, and the presence of the rich 
Jewish merchant and his family. I can see no validity 
whatever in the view that the influence of the rich Jews on 
the theatre is any worse than the influence of the rich of any 
other race. Other qualities being equal, men become rich 
in commerce in proportion to the intensity and exclusiveness 
of their desire for money. It may be a misfortune that the 
purchasing power of men who value money above art, phi- 
losophy, and the welfare of the whole community, should 
enable them to influence the theatre (and everthing else in 
the market); but there is no reason to suppose that their 
influence is any nobler when they imagine themselves 
Christians than when they know themselves Jews. All that 
can fairly be said of the Jewish influence on the theatre is 
that it is exotic, and is not only a customer's influence but 
a financier's influence : so much so, that the way is smooth- 



viii Three Plays for Puritans 

est for those plays and those performers that appeal specially 
to the Jewish taste. English influence on the theatre, as 
far as the stalls are concerned, does not exist, because the 
rich purchasing-powerful Englishman prefers politics and 
church-going : his soul is too stubborn to be purged by an 
avowed make-believe. When he wants sensuality he prac- 
tices it ; he does not play with voluptuous or romantic ideas. 
From the play of ideas— and the drama can never be any- 
thing more — he demands edification, and will not pay for 
anything else in that arena. Consequently the box office 
will never become an English influence until the theatre 
turns from the drama of romance and sensuality to the 
drama of edification. 

Turning from the stalls to the whole auditorium, con- 
sider what is implied by the fact that the prices (all much 
too high, by the way) range from half a guinea to a shil- 
ling, the ages from eighteen to eighty, whilst every age, 
and nearly every price, represents a different taste. Is it 
not clear that this diversity in the audience makes it 
impossible to gratify every one of its units by the same 
luxury, since in that domain of infinite caprice, one man*s 
meat is another man's poison, one age's longing another 
age's loathing? And yet that is just what the theatres kept 
trying to do almost all the time 1 was doomed to attend 
them. On the other hand, to interest people of divers ages, 
classes, and temperaments, by some generally momentous 
subject of thought, as the politicians and preachers do, 
would seem the most obvious course in the world. And 
yet the theatres avoided that as a ruinous eccentricity. 
Their wiseacres persisted in assuming that all men have 
the same tastes, fancies, and qualities of passion; that no 
two have the same interests; and that most playgoers have 
no interests at all. This being precisely contrary to the 
obvious facts, it followed that the majority of the plays pro- 
duced were failures, recognizable as such before the end of 



Why for Puritans? ix 

the first act by the very wiseacres aforementioned, who, 
quite incapable of understanding the lesson, would there- 
upon set to work to obtain and produce a play applying 
their theory still more strictly, with proportionately more 
disastrous results. The sums of money I saw thus trans- 
ferred from the pockets of theatrical speculators and syn- 
dicates to those of wigmakers, costumiers, scene painters, 
carpenters, doorkeepers, actors, theatre landlords, and all 
the other people for whose exclusive benefit most London 
theatres seem to exist, would have kept a theatre devoted 
exclusively to the highest drama open all the year round. 
If the Browning and Shelley Societies were fools, as the 
wiseacres said they were, for producing Strafford, Colombe*s 
Birthday, and The Cenci; if the Independent Theatre, the 
New Century Theatre, and the Stage Society are impracti- 
cable faddists for producing the plays of Ibsen and Maeter- 
linck, then what epithet is contemptuous enough for the 
people who produce the would-be popular plays ? 

The actor-managers were far more successful, because 
they produced plays that at least pleased themselves, where- 
as the others, with a false theory of how to please every- 
body, produced plays that pleased nobody. But their 
occasional personal successes in voluptuous plays, and, in 
any case, their careful concealment of failure, confirmed the 
prevalent error, which was only exposed fully when the 
plays had to stand or fall openly by their own merits. Even 
Shakespear was played with his brains cut out. In 1 896, 
when Sir Henry Irving was disabled by an accident at 
a moment when Miss Ellen Terry was too ill to appear, 
the theatre bad to be closed after a brief attempt to rely 
on the attraction of a Shakespearean play performed by 
the stock company. This may have been Shakespear' s 
fault : indeed Sir Henry later on complained that he had lost 
a princely sum by Shakespear. But Shakespear' s reply to 
this, if he were able to make it, would be that the princely 



X Three Plays for Puritans 

sum was spent, not on his dramatic poetry, but on a gorgeous 
stage ritualism superimposed on reckless mutilations of his 
text, the whole being addressed to a public as to which 
nothing is certain except that its natural bias is towards 
reverence for Shakespear and dislike and distrust of ritualism. 
No doubt the Lyceum ritual appealed to a far more culti- 
vated sensuousness and imaginativeness than the musical 
farces in which our stage Abbots of Misrule pontificated 
(with the same financially disastrous result); but in both 
there was the same intentional brainlessness, founded on the 
same theory that the public did not want brains, did not 
want to think, did not want anything but pleasure at the 
theatre. Unfortunately, this theory happens to be true of 
a certain section of the public. This section, being courted 
by the theatres, went to them and drove the other people 
out. It then discovered, as any expert could have foreseen, 
that the theatre cannot compete in mere pleasuremongering 
either v/ith the other arts or with matter-of-fact gallantry. 
Stage pictures are the worst pictures, stage music the worst 
music, stage scenery the worst scenery within reach of the 
Londoner. The leading lady or gentleman may be as 
tempting to the admirer in the pit as the dishes in a cook- 
ship window are to the penniless tramp on the pavement ; 
but people do not, I presume, go to the theatre to be merely 
tantalized. 

The breakdown on the last point was conclusive. For 
when the managers tried to put their principle of pleasing 
everybody into practice. Necessity, ever ironical towards 
Folly, had driven them to seek a universal pleasure to appeal 
to. And since many have no ear for music or eye for color, 
the search for universality inevitably flung the managers 
back on the instinct of sex as the avenue to all hearts. Of 
course the appeal was a vapid failure. Speaking for my 
own sex, I can say that the leading lady was not to every- 
body's taste : her pretty face often became ugly when she 
tried to make it expressive ; her voice lost its charm (if it 



Why for Puritans? xi 

ever had any) when she had nothing sincere to say ; and 
the stalls, from racial prejudice, were apt to insist on more 
Rebecca and less Rowena than the pit cared for. It may 
seem strange, even monstrous, that a man should feel a 
constant attachment to the hideous witches in Macbeth, 
and yet yawn at the prospect of spending another evening 
in the contemplation of a beauteous young leading lady 
with voluptuous contours and longlashed eyes, painted and 
dressed to perfection in the latest fashions. But that is just 
what happened to me in the theatre. 

I did not find that matters were improved by the lady 
pretending to be "a woman with a past," violently over- 
sexed, or the play being called a problem play, even when 
the manager, and sometimes, I suspect, the very author, 
firmly believed the word problem to be the latest euphe- 
mism for what Justice Shallow called a bona roba, and cer- 
tainly would not either of them have staked a farthing 
on the interest of a genuine problem. In fact these 
so-called problem plays invariably depended for their dra- 
matic interest on foregone conclusions of the most heart- 
wearying conventionality concerning sexual morality. The 
authors had no problematic views: all they wanted was to 
capture some of the fascination of Ibsen. It seemed to 
them that most of Ibsen's heroines were naughty ladies. 
And they tried to produce Ibsen plays by making their 
heroines naughty. But they took great care to make them 
pretty and expensively dressed. Thus the pseudo-Ibsen 
play was nothing but the ordinary sensuous ritual of the 
stage become as frankly pornographic as good manners 
allowed. 

I found that the whole business of stage sensuousness, 
whether as Lyceum Shakespear, musical farce, or sham 
Ibsen, finally disgusted mc, not because I was Pharisaical, 
or intolerantly refined, but because I was bored ; and bore- 
dom is a condition which makes men as susceptible to 
disgust and irritation as headache makes them to noise and- 



xii Three Plays for Puritans 

glare. Being a man, I have my share of the masculine 
silliness and vulgarity on the subject of sex which so aston- 
ishes women, to whom sex is a serious matter. I am not 
an Archbishop, and do not pretend to pass my life on one 
plane or in one mood, and that the highest : on the con- 
trary, I am, I protest, as accessible to the humors of the 
Rogue's Comedy or the Rake's Progress as to the pious 
decencies of The Sign of The Cross. Thus FalstafF, 
coarser than any of the men in our loosest plays, does not 
bore me : Doll Tearsheet, more abandoned than any of the 
women, does not shock me: I think that Romeo and Juliet 
would be a poorer play if it were robbed of the solitary 
fragment it has preserved for us of the conversation of the 
husband of Juliet's nurse. No: my disgust was not mere 
thinskinned prudery. When my moral sense revolted, as 
it often did to the very fibres, it was invariably at the 
nauseous compliances of the theatre with conventional 
virtue. If I despised the musical farces, it was because 
they never had the courage of their vices. With all their 
labored efforts to keep up an understanding of furtive 
naughtiness between the low comedian on the stage and 
the drunken undergraduate in the stalls, they insisted all 
the time on their virtue and patriotism and loyalty as piti- 
fully as a poor girl of the pavement will pretend to be a 
clergyman's daughter. True, I may have been offended 
when a manager, catering for me with coarse frankness as 
a slave-dealer caters for a Pasha, invited me to forget the 
common bond of humanity between me and his company 
by demanding nothing from them but a gloatably voluptu- 
ous appearance. But this extreme is never reached at 
our better theatres. The shop assistants, the typists, 
the clerks, who, as I have said, preserve the innocence 
of the theatre, would not dare to let themselves be pleased 
by it. Even if they did, they would not get it from 
the managers, who, when they are brought to the only 
logical conclusion from their principle of making the thea- 



Why for Puritans? xiii 

tre a temple of pleasure, indignantly refuse to change 
the dramatic profession for Mrs Warren's. For that is 
what all this demand for pleasure at the theatre finally 
comes to; and the answer to it is, not that people ought 
not to desire sensuous pleasure (they cannot help it), but 
that the theatre cannot give it to them, even to the 
extent permitted by the honor and conscience of the best 
managers, because a theatre is so far from being a pleasant 
or even a comfortable place that only by making us 
forget ourselves can it prevent us from realizing its incon- 
veniences. A play that does not do this for t he pleasure- 
seeker allows him to discover that he has chosen a dis- 
agreeable and expensive way of spending an evening. He 
wants to drink, to smoke, to change the spectacle, to get 
rid of the middle-aged actor and actress who are boring 
him, and to see shapely young dancing girls and acrobats 
doing more amusing things in a more plastic manner. In 
short, he wants the music hall ; and he goes there, leaving 
the managers astonished at this unexpected but quite inev- 
itable result of the attempt to please him. Whereas, had 
he been enthralled by the play, even with horror, instead 
of himself enthralling with the dread of his displeasure the 
manager, the author and the actors, all had been well. And 
so we must conclude that the theatre is a place which 
people can only endure when they forget themselves : that 
is, when their attention is entirely captured, their interest 
thoroughly roused, their sympathies raised to the eagerest 
readiness, and their selfishness utterly annihilated. Imagine, 
then, the result of conducting theatres on the principle of 
appealing exclusively to the instinct of self-gratification in 
people without power of attention, without interests, with- 
out sympathy, in short, without brains or heart. That is 
how they were conducted whilst I was writing about them; 
and that is how they nearly killed me. 

Yet the managers mean well. Their self-respect is in 
excess rather than in defect ; for they are in full reaction 



xiv Three Plays for Puritans 

against the Bohemianism of past generations of actors, and 
so bent on compelling social recognition by a blameless 
respectability, that the drama, neglected in the struggle, is 
only just beginning to stir feebly after standing stock-still in 
England from Robertson's time in the sixties until the first 
actor was knighted in the nineties. The manager may not 
want good plays; but he does not want bad plays: he wants 
nice plays. Nice plays, with nice dresses, nice drawing- 
rooms and nice people, are indispensable: to be ungenteel is 
worse than to fail. I use the word ungenteel purposely; for 
the stage presents life on thirty pounds a day, not as it is, 
but as it is conceived by the earners of thirty shillings a 
week. The real thing would shock the audience exactly as 
jhe manners of the public school and university shock a 
Board of Guardians. In just the same way, the plays which 
constitute the genuine aristocracy of modern dramatic litera- 
ture shock the reverence for gentility which governs our 
theatres today. For instance, the objection to Ibsen is not 
really an objection to his philosophy: it is a protest against the 
fact that his characters do not behave as ladies and gentle- 
men are popularly supposed to behave. If you adore Hedda 
Gabler in real life, if you envy her and feel that nothing but 
your poverty prevents you from being as exquisite a creature, 
if you know that the accident of matrimony (say with an 
officer of the guards who falls in love with you across the 
counter whilst you are reckoning the words in his telegram) 
may at any moment put you in her place, Ibsen's exposure 
of the worthlessness and meanness of her life is cruel and 
blasphemous to you. This point of view is not caught by the 
clever ladies of Hedda' s own class, who recognize the por- 
trait, applaud its painter, and think the fuss against Ibsen 
means nothing more than the conventional disapproval of 
her discussions of a menage a trots with Judge Brack. A little 
experience of popular plays would soon convince these clever 
ladies that a heroine that atones in the last act by commit- 
ting suicide may do all the things that Hedda only talked 



Why for Puritans? xv 

about, without a word of remonstrance from the press or the 
public. It is not murder, not adultery, not rapine that is 
objected to: quite the contrary. It is an unladylike atti- 
tude towards life : in other words, a disparagement of the 
social ideals of the poorer middle class and of the vast rein- 
forcements it has had from the working class during the last 
twenty years. Let but the attitude of the author be gentle- 
manlike, and his heroines may do what they please. Mrs 
Tanqueray was received with delight by the public : Saint 
Teresa would have been hissed off the same stage for her 
contempt for the ideal represented by a carriage, a fashion- 
able dressmaker, and a dozen servants. 

Here, then, is a pretty problem for the manager. He is 
convinced that plays must depend for their dramatic force 
on appeals to the sex instinct: and yet he owes it to his own 
newly conquered social position that they shall be perfectly 
genteel plays, lit for churchgoers. The sex instinct must 
therefore proceed upon genteel assumptions. Impossible ! 
you will exclaim. But you are wrong : nothing is more 
astonishing than the extent to which, in real life, the sex 
instinct does so proceed, even when the consequence is its 
lifelong starvation. Few of us have vitality enough to make 
any of our instincts imperious : we can be made to live on 
pretences, as the masterful minority well know. But the 
timid majority, if it rules nowhere else, at least rules in the 
theatre: fidy enough too, because on the stage pretence is 
all that can exist. Life has its realities behind its shows : 
the theatre has nothing but its shows. But can the theatre 
make a show of lovers' endearments? A thousand times 
no: perish the thought of such unladylike, ungentlemanhke 
exhibitions. You can have fights, rescues, conflagrations, 
trials at law, avalanches, murders and executions all directly 
simulated on the stage if you will. But any such realistic 
treatment of the incidents of sex is quite out of the question. 
The singer, the dramatic dancer, the exquisite declaimer 
of impassioned poesy, the rare artist who, bringing some- 



a£? 



xvi Three Plays for Puritans 

thing of the art of all three to the ordinary work of the 
theatre, can enthral an audience by the expression of dra- 
matic feeling alone, may take love for a theme on the stage; 
but the prosaic walking gentlemen of our fashionable theatres, 
realistically simulating the incidents of life, cannot touch it 
without indecorum. 

Can any dilemma be more complete ? Love is assumed 
to be the only theme that touches all your audience infallibly, 
young and old, rich and poor. And yet love is the one 
subject that the drawingroom drama dare not present. 

Out of this dilemma, which is a very old one, has come 
the romantic play ; that is, the play in which love is care- 
fully kept off the stage, whilst it is alleged as the motive 
of all the actions presented to the audience. The result 
is to me, at least, an intolerable perversion of human con- 
duct. There are two classes of stories that seem to me to 
be not only fundamentally false but sordidly base. One is 
the pseudo-religious story, in which the hero or heroine 
does good on strictly commercial grounds, reluctantly exer- 
cising a little virtue on earth in consideration of receiving 
in return an exorbitant payment in heaven: much as if an 
odalisque were to allow a cadi to whip her for a couple of 
millions in gold. The otfrer is the romance in which the 
hero, also rigidly commercial, will do nothing except for 
the sake of the heroine. Surely this is as depressing as it 
is unreal. Compare with it the treatment of love, frankly 
indecent according to our notions, in oriental fiction. In 
The Arabian Nights we have a series of stories, some of 
them very good ones, in which no sort of decorum is 
observed. The result is that they are infinitely more instruct- 
ive and enjoyable than our romances, because love is treated 
in them as naturally as any other passion. There is no 
cast iron convention as to its efi^ects; no false association of 
general depravity of character with its corporealities or of 
general elevation with its sentimentalities ; no pretence that 
a man or woman cannot be courageous and kind and 



Why for Puritans? xvii 

friendly unless infatuatedly in love with somebody (is no 
poet manly enough to sing The Old Maids of England?): 
rather, indeed, an insistence on the blinding and narrowing 
power of lovesickness to make princely heroes unhappy 
and unfortunate. These tales expose, further, the delusion 
that the interest of this most capricious, most transient, 
most easily baffled of all instincts, is inexhaustible, and 
that the field of the English romancer has been cruelly 
narrowed by the restrictions under which he is permitted 
to deal with it. The Arabian storyteller, relieved of all 
such restrictions, heaps character on character, adventure 
on adventure, marvel on marvel; whilst the English novel- 
ist, like the starving tramp who can think of nothing but 
his hunger, seems to be unable to escape from the obsession 
of sex, and will rewrite the very gospels because the 
originals are not written in the sensuously ecstatic style. 
At the instance of Martin Luther we long ago gave up 
imposing celibacy on our priests ; but we still impose it on 
our art, with the very undesirable and unexpected result 
that no editor, publisher, or manager, will now accept a 
story or produce a play without **love interest" in it. 
Take, for a recent example, Mr H. G. Wells's War of 
Two Worlds, a tale of the invasion of the earth by the 
inhabitants of the planet Mars : a capital story, not to be 
laid down until finished. Love interest is impossible on its 
scientific plane: nothing could be more impertinent and 
irritating. Yet Mr Wells has had to pretend that the hero 
is in love with a young lady manufactured for the purpose, 
and to imply that it is on her account alone that he feels 
concerned about the apparently inevitable destruction of the 
human race by the Martians. Another example. An 
American novelist, recently deceased, made a hit some 
years ago by compihng a Bostonian Utopia from the pros- 
pectuses of the little bands of devout Communists who have 
from time to time, since the days of Fourier and Owen, 
tried to establish millennial colonies outside our commercial 



xviii Three Plays for Puritans 

civilization. Even in this economic Utopia we find the 
inevitable love aiFair. The hero, waking up in a distant 
future from a miraculous sleep, meets a Boston young lady, 
provided expressly for him to fall in love with. Women 
have by that time given up wearing skirts ; but she, to spare 
his delicacy, gets one out of a museum^ of antiquities to wear 
in his presence until he is hardened to the customs of the 
new age. When I came to that touching incident, 1 
became as Paolo and Francesca : *Mn that book I read no 
more." I will not multiply examples: if such unendurable 
follies occur in the sort of story made by working out a 
meteorologic or economic hypothesis, the extent to which it 
is carried in sentimental romances needs no expatiation. 

The worst of it is that since man's intellectual conscious- 
ness of himself is derived from the descriptions of him in 
books, a persistent misrepresentation of humanity in litera- 
ture gets finally accepted and acted upon. If every mirror 
reflected our noses twice their natural size, we should live 
and die in the faith that we were all Punches ; and we 
should scout a true mirror as the work of a fool, madman, 
or jester. Nay, I believe we should, by Lamarckian 
adaptation, enlarge our noses to the admired size; for I have 
noticed that when a certain type of feature appears in 
painting and is admired as beautiful, it presently becomes 
common in nature ; so that the Beatrices and Francescas in 
the picture galleries of one generation, to whom minor poets 
address verses entitled To My Lady, come to life as the 
parlormaids and waitresses of the next. If the conventions 
of romance are only insisted on long enough and uniformly 
enough (a condition guaranteed by the uniformity of human 
folly and vanity), then, for the huge School Board taught 
masses who read romance and nothing else, these conven- 
tions will become the laws of personal honor. Jealousy, 
which is either an egotistical meanness or a specific mania, 
will become obligatory; and ruin, ostracism, breaking up of 
homes, duelling, murder, suicide and infanticide will be 



Why for Puritans? xix 

produced (often have been produced, in fact) by incidents 
which, if left to the operation of natural and right feeling, 
would produce nothing worse than an hoar's soon-forgotten 
fuss. Men will be slain needlessly on the field of battle 
because officers conceive it to be their first duty to make 
romantic exhibitions of conspicuous gallantry. The squire 
who has never spared an hour from the hunting field to do a 
little public work on a parish council will be cheered as a 
patriot because he is willing to kill and be killed for the sake 
of conferring himself as an institution on other countries. 
In the courts cases will be argued, not on juridical but on 
romantic principles; and vindictive damages and vindictive 
sentences, with the acceptance of nonsensical, and the repu- 
diation or suppression of sensible testimony, will destroy the 
very sense of law. Kaisers, generals, judges, and prime min- 
isters will set the example of playing to the gallery. Finally 
the people, now that their Board School hteracy enables 
every penman to play on their romantic illusions, will be led 
by the nose far more completely than they ever were by 
playing on their former ignorance and superstition. Nay, 
why should I say will be ? they are. Ten years of cheap 
reading have changed the English from the most stolid 
nation in Europe to the most theatrical and hysterical. 

Is it clear now, why the theatre was insufferable to me; 
why it left its black mark on my bones as it has left its 
black mark on the character of the nation ; why I call the 
Puritans to rescue it again as they rescued it before when 
its foolish pursuit of pleasure sunk it in **profaneness and 
immorality*'.? I have, I think, always been a Puritan in 
my attitude towards Art. I am as fond of fine music and 
handsome building as Milton was, or Cromwell, or Bunyan; 
but if I found that they were becoming the instruments of a 
systematic idolatry of sensuousness, I would hold it good 
statesmanship to blow every cathedral in the world to 
pieces with dynamite, organ and all, without the least heed 
to the screams of the art critics and cultured voluptuaries. 



XX Three Plays for Puritans 

And when I see that the nineteenth century has crowned the 
idolatry of Art with the deification of Love, so that every 
poet is supposed to have pierced to the holy of holies when 
he has announced that Love is the Supreme, or the Enough, 
or the All, I feel that Art was safer in the hands of the 
most fanatical of Cromwell's major generals than it will be 
if ever it gets into mine. The pleasures of the senses I can 
sympathize with and share; but the substitution of sensuous 
ecstasy for intellectual activity and honesty is the very devil. 
It has already brought us to Flogging Bills in Parhament, 
I and, by reaction, to androgynous heroes on the stage; and 
^-"^if the infection spreads until the democratic attitude becomes 
thoroughly Romanticist, the country will become unbearable 
for all realists, Philistine or Platonic. When it comes to 
that, the brute force of the strong-minded Bismarckian man 
of action, impatient of humbug, will combine with the 
subtlety and spiritual energy of the man of thought whom 
shams cannot illude or interest. That combination will be 
on one side ; and Romanticism will be on the other. In 
which event, so much the worse for Romanticism, which 
will come down even if it has to drag Democracy down 
with it. For all institutions have in the long run to live by 
the nature of things, and not by imagination. 

ON DIABOLONIAN ETHICS 

There is a foolish opinion prevalent that an author 
should allow his works to speak for themselves, and that he 
who appends and prefixes explanations to them is likely to 
be as bad an artist as the painter cited by Cervantes, who 
wrote under his picture This is a Cock, lest there should 
be any mistake about it. The pat retort to this thoughtless 
comparison is that the painter invariably does so label his 
picture. What is a Royal Academy catalogue but a series 
of statements that This is the Vale of Rest, This is The 
School of Athens, This is Chill October, This is The 



On Diabolonian Ethics xxi 

Prince of Wales, and so on ? The reason most dramatists 
do not publish their plays with prefaces is that they cannot 
write them, the business of intellectually conscious philoso- 
pher and skilled critic being no part of the playwright's 
craft. Naturally, making a virtue of their incapacity, they 
either repudiate prefaces as shameful, or else, with a modest 
air, request some popular critic to supply one, as much as to 
say. Were I to tell the truth about myself I must needs 
seem vainglorious : were I to tell less than the truth I 
should do myself an injustice and deceive my readers. As 
to the critic thus called in from the outside, what can he 
do but imply that his friend's transcendent ability as a 
dramatist is surpassed only by his beautiful nature as a 
man ? Now what I say is, why should I get another man 
to praise me when I can praise myself? I have no dis- 
abilities to plead : produce me your best critic, and I will 
criticize his head oiF. As to philosophy, I taught my critics 
the little they know in my Quintessence of Ibsenism ; and 
now they turn their guns — the guns I loaded for them — on 
me, and proclaim that I write as if mankind had intellect 
without will, or heart, as they call it. Ingrates : who was 
it that directed your attention to the distinction between 
Will and Intellect ? Not Schopenhauer, I think, but Shaw. 
Again, they tell me that So-and-So, who does not write 
prefaces, is no charlatan. Well, I am. I first caught the 
ear of the British public on a cart in Hyde Park, to the 
blaring of brass bands, and this not at all as a reluctant 
sacrifice of my instinct of privacy to political necessity, but 
because, like all dramatists and mimes of genuine vocation, 
I am a natural-born mountebank. I am well aware that 
the ordinary British citizen requires a profession of shame 
from all mountebanks by way of homage to the sanctity of 
the ignoble private life to which he is condemned by his 
incapacity for public life. Thus Shakespear, after proclaim- 
ing that Not marble nor the gilded monuments of Princes 
should outlive his powerful rhyme, would apologise, in the 



xxii Three Plays for Puritans 

approved taste, for making himself a motley to the view ; 
and the British citizen has ever since quoted the apology and 
ignored the fanfare. When an actress writes her memoirs, 
she impresses on you in every chapter how cruelly it tried 
her feelings to exhibit her person to the public gaze ; but 
she does not forget to decorate the book with a dozen portraits 
of herself I really cannot respond to this demand for mock- 
modesty. I am ashamed neither of my work nor of the way 
it is done. I like explaining its merits to the huge majority 
who dont know good work from bad. It does them good; 
and it does me good, curing me of nervousness, laziness, 
and snobbishness, I write prefaces as Dryden did, and 
treatises as Wagner, because I can; and I would give half 
a dozen of Shakespear's plays for one of the prefaces he 
ought to have written. I leave the delicacies of retirement 
to those who are gentlemen first and literary workmen after- 
wards. The cart and trumpet for me. 

This is all very well ; but the trumpet is an instrument 
that grows on one ; and sometimes my blasts have been 
so strident that even those who are most annoyed by them 
have mistaken the novelty of my shamelessness for novelty 
in my plays and opinions. Take, for instance, the first play 
in this volume, entitled The Devil's Disciple. It does not 
contain a single even passably novel incident. Every old 
patron of the Adelphi pit would, were he not beglamored 
in a way presently to be explained, recognize the reading 
of the will, the oppressed orphan finding a protector, the 
arrest, the heroic sacrifice, the court martial, the scaffold, 
the reprieve at the last moment, as he recognizes beefsteak 
pudding on the bill of fare at his restaurant. Yet when the 
play was produced in 1897 in New York by Mr Richard 
Mansfield, with a success that proves either that the melo- 
drama was built on very safe old lines, or that the American 
public is composed exclusively of men of genius, the critics, 
though one said one thing and another another as to the 



On Diabolonian Ethics xxiii 

play's merits, yet all agreed that it was novel — original^ as 
they put it — to the verge of audacious eccentricity. 

Now this, if it applies to the incidents, plot, construc- 
tion, and general professional and technical qualities of the 
play, is nonsense; for the truth is, I am in these matters a 
very old-fashioned playwright. When a good deal of the 
same talk, both hostile and friendly, was provoked by my 
last volume of plays, Mr Robert Buchanan, a dramatist who 
knows what I know and remembers what I remember of 
the history of the stage, pointed out that the stage tricks 
by which I gave the younger generation of playgoers an 
exquisite sense of quaint unexpectedness, had done duty 
years ago in Cool as a Cucumber, Used Up, and many 
forgotten farces and comedies of the Byron- Robertson school, 
in which the imperturbably impudent comedian, after- 
wards shelved by the reaction to brainless sentimentality, 
was a stock figure. It is always so more or less: the novelties 
of one generation are only the resuscitated fashions of the 
generation before last. 

But the stage tricks of The Devil's Disciple are not, 
like some of those of Arms and the Man, the forgotten 
ones of the sixties, but the hackneyed ones of our own 
time. Why, then, were they not recognized? Partly, no 
doubt, because of my trumpet and cartwheel declamation. 
The critics were the victims of the long course of hypnotic 
suggestion by which G.B.S. the journalist manufactured 
an unconventional reputation for Bernard Shaw the author. 
In England as elsewhere the spontaneous recognition of 
really original work begins with a mere handful of people, 
and propagates itself so slowly that it has become a 
commonplace to say that genius, demanding bread, is given 
a stone after its possessor's death. The remedy for this is 
v«S.edulous advertisement. Accordingly, I have advertised 
myself so well that I find myself, whilst still in middle 
life, almost as legendary a person as the Flying Dutchman. 



xxiv Three Plays for Puritans 

Critics, like other people, see what they look for, not 
what is actually before them. In my plays they look for 
my legendary qualities, and find originality and brilliancy 
in my most hackneyed claptraps. Were I to republish 
Buckstone's Wreck Ashore as my latest comedy, it would 
be hailed as a masterpiece of perverse paradox and scintil- 
lating satire. Not, of course, by the really able critics — 
for example, you, my friend, now reading this sentence. 
The illusion that makes you think me so original is far 
subtler than that. The Devil's Disciple has, in truth, a 
genuine novelty in it. Only, that novelty is not any inven- 
tion of my own, but simply the novelty of the advanced 
thought of my day. As such, it will assuredly lose its gloss 
with the lapse of time, and leave the Devil's Disciple 
exposed as the threadbare popular melodrama it techni- 
cally is. 

Let me explain (for, as Mr A. B. Walkley has pointed 
out in his disquisitions on Frames of Mind, I am nothing if 
not explanatory). Dick Dudgeon, the devil's disciple, is a 
Puritan of the Puritans. He is brought up in a household 
where the Puritan religion has died, and become, in its cor- 
ruption, an excuse for his mother's master passion of hatred 
in all its phases of cruelty and envy. This corruption 
has already been dramatized for us by Charles Dickens in 
his picture of the Clennam household in Little Dorrit : 
Mrs Dudgeon being a replica of Mrs Clennam with certain 
circumstantial variations, and perhaps a touch of the same 
author's Mrs Gargery in Great Expectations. In such a 
home the young Puritan finds himself starved of religion, 
which is the most clamorous need of his nature. With all 
his mother's indomitable selfFulness, but with Pity instead 
of Hatred as his master passion, he pities the devil; takes 
his side; and champions him, like a true Covenanter, against 
the world. He thus becomes, like all genuinely religious 
men, a reprobate and an outcast. Once this is understood, 
the play becomes straightforwardly simple. The Diabolo- 



On Diabolonian Ethics xxv 

nian position is new to the London playgoer of today, but 
not to lovers of serious literature. From Prometheus to the 
Wagnerian Siegfried, some enemy of the gods, unterrified 
champion of those oppressed by them, has always towered 
among the heroes of the loftiest poetry. Our newest idol, 
the Overman, celebrating the death of godhead, may be 
younger than the hills; but he is as old as the shepherds. 
Two and a half centuries ago our greatest English dramatizer 
of life, John Bunyan, ended one of his stories with the 
remark that there is a way to hell even from the gates of 
heaven, and so led us to the equally true proposition that 
there is a way to heaven even from the gates of hell. A 
century ago William Blake was, like Dick Dudgeon, an 
avowed Diabolonian : he called his angels devils and his 
devils angels. His devil is a Redeemer. Let those who 
have praised my originality in conceiving Dick Dudgeon's 
strange religion read Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell; 
and I shall be fortunate if they do not rail at me for a 
plagiarist. But they need not go back to Blake and 
Bunyan. Have they not heard the recent fuss about 
Nietzsche and his Good and Evil Turned Inside Out } 
Mr Robert Buchanan has actually written a long poem of 
which the Devil is the merciful hero, which poem was in 
my hands before a word of The Devil's Disciple was written. 
There never was a play more certain to be written than 
The Devil's Disciple at the end of the nineteenth century. 
The age was visibly pregnant with it. 

I grieve to have to add that my old friends and col- 
leagues the London critics for the most part shewed no 
sort of connoisseurship either in Puritanism or in Diabolo- 
nianism when the play was performed for a few weeks at a 
suburban theatre (Kennington) in October 1899 by Mr 
Murray Carson. They took Mrs Dudgeon at her own 
valuation as a religious woman because she was detestably 
disagreeable. And they took Dick as a blackguard, on her 
authority, because he was neither detestable nor disagree- 



xxvi Three Plays for Puritans 

able. But they presently found themselves in a dilemma. 
Why should a blackguard save another man's life, and that 
man no friend of his, at the risk of his own ? Clearly, said 
the critics, because he is redeemed by love. All wicked 
heroes are, on the stage : that is the romantic metaphysic. 
Unfortunately for this explanation (which I do not profess 
to understand) it turned out in the third act that Dick was 
a Puritan in this respect also : a man impassioned only for 
saving grace, and not to be led or turned by wife or mother. 
Church or State, pride of life or lust of the flesh. In the 
lovely home of the courageous, afi^ectionate, practical 
minister who marries a pretty wife twenty years younger 
than himself, and turns soldier in an instant to save the man 
who has saved him, Dick looks round and understands the 
charm and the peace and the sanctity, but knows that such 
material comforts are not for him. When the woman nursed 
in that atmosphere falls in love with him and concludes 
(like the critics, who somehow always agree with my senti- 
mental heroines) that he risked his life for her sake, he tells 
her the obvious truth that he would have done as much for 
any stranger — that the law of his own nature, and no inter- 
est nor lust whatsoever, forbad him to cry out that the 
hangman's noose should be taken off his neck only to be 
put on another man's. 

But then, said the critics, where is the motive? fFby 
did Dick save Anderson? On the stage, it appears, people 
do things for reasons. Off the stage they dont: that is why 
your penny-in-the-slot heroes, who only work when you 
drop a motive into them, are so oppressively automatic and 
uninteresting. The saving of life at the risk of the saver's 
own is not a common thing; but modern populations are so 
vast that even the most uncommon things are recorded once 
a week or oftener. Not one of my critics but has seen a 
hundred times in his paper how some policeman or fireman 
or nursemaid has received a medal, or the compliments of a 
magistrate, or perhaps a public funeral, for risking his or her 



On Diabolonian Ethics xxvii 

life to save another's. Has he ever seen it added that the 
saved was the husband of the woman the saver loved, or was 
that woman herself, or was even known to the saver as much 
as by sight? Never. When we want to read of the deeds 
that are done for love, whither do we turn? To the murder 
column; and there we are rarely disappointed. 

Need I repeat that the theatre critic's professional routine 
so discourages any association between real life and the stage, 
that he soon loses the natural habit of referring to the one 
to explain the other? The critic who discovered a romantic 
motive for Dick's sacrifice was no mere literary dreamer, 
but a clever barrister. He pointed out that Dick Dudgeon 
clearly did adore Mrs Anderson; that it was for her sake 
that he offered his life to save her beloved husband ; and 
that his explicit denial of his passion was the splendid men- 
dacity of a gentleman whose respect for a married woman, 
and duty to her absent husband, sealed his passion-palpi- 
tating lips. From the moment that this fatally plausible 
explanation was launched, my play became my critic's play, 
not mine. Thenceforth Dick Dudgeon every night con- 
firmed the critic by stealing behind Judith, and mutely 
attesting his passion by surreptitiously imprinting a heart- 
broken kiss on a stray lock of her hair whilst he uttered the 
barren denial. As for me, I was just then wandering about 
the streets of Constantinople, unaware of all these doings. 
When I returned all was over. My personal relations with 
the critic and the actor forbad me to curse them. I had 
not even a chance of publicly forgiving them. They meant 
well by me; but if they ever write a play, may I be there 
to explain! 



xxviii Three Plays for Puritans 



BETTER THAN SHAKESPEAR? 

As to the other plays in this volume, the application of 
my title is less obvious, since neither Julius Caesar, Cleo- 
patra nor Lady Cecily Waynflete have any external political 
connection with Puritanism. The very name of Cleopatra 
suggests at once a tragedy of Circe, w^ith the horrible differ- 
ence that whereas the ancient myth rightly represents Circe 
as turning heroes into hogs, the modern romantic convention 
would represent her as turning hogs into heroes. Shake- 
spear's Antony and Cleopatra must needs be as intolerable 
to the true Puritan as it is vaguely distressing to the ordinary 
healthy citizen, because, after giving a faithful picture of 
the soldier broken down by debauchery, and the typical 
wanton in whose arms^such men perish, Shakespear finally 
strains all his huge command of rhetoric and stage pathos 
to give a theatrical sublimity to the wretched end of the 
business, and to persuade foolish spectators that the world 
was well lost by the twain. Such falsehood is not to be 
borne except by the real Cleopatras and Antonys (they are 
to be found in every public house) who would no doubt be 
glad enough to be transfigured by some poet as immortal 
lovers. Woe to the poet who stoops to such folly! The lot 
of the man who sees life truly and thinks about it romantic- 
ally is Despair. How well we know the cries of that despair! 
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity! moans the Preacher, when 
life has at last taught him that Nature will not dance to his 
moralist-made tunes. Thackeray, scores of centuries later, 
is still baying the moon in the same terms. Out, out, brief 
candle! cries Shakespear, in his tragedy of the modern 
literary man as murderer and witch consulter. Surely the 
time is past for patience with writers who, having to choose 
between giving up life in despair and discarding the trumpery 
moral kitchen scales in which they try to weigh the uni- 



Better than Shakespear? xxix 

verse, superstitiously stick to the scales, and spend the rest 
of the lives they pretend to despise in breaking men's spirits. 
But even in pessimism there is a choice between intellectual 
honesty and dishonesty. Hogarth drew the rake and the 
harlot without glorifying their end. Swift, accepting our 
system of morals and religion, delivered the inevitable verdict 
of that system on us through the mouth of the king of 
Brobdingnag, and described man as the Yahoo, shocking his 
superior the horse by his every action. Strindberg, the only 
living genuine Shakespearean dramatist, shows that the 
female Yahoo, measured by romantic standards, is viler than 
her male dupe and slave. I respect these resolute tragi- 
comedians : they are logical and faithful : they force you to 
face the fact that you must either accept their conclusions 
as valid (in which case it is cowardly to continue living) or 
admit that your way of judging conduct is absurd. But when 
your Shakespears and Thackerays huddle up the matter at 
the end by killing somebody and covering your eyes with 
the undertaker's handkerchief, duly onioned with some 
pathetic phrase, as The flight of angels sing thee to thy 
rest, or Adsum, or the Hke, I have no respect for them at 
all : such maudlin tricks may impose on tea-drunkards, not 
on me. 

Besides, I have a technical objection to making sexual 
infatuation a tragic theme. Experience proves that it is only 
effective in the comic spirit. We can bear to see Mrs 
Quickly pawning her plate for love of Falstaff, but not 
Antony running away from the battle of Actium for love of 
Cleopatra. Let realism have its demonstration, comedy its 
criticism, or even bawdry its horselaugh at the expense of 
sexual infatuation, if it must; but to ask us to subject our 
souls to its ruinous glamor, to worship it, deify it, and imply 
that it alone makes our life worth living, is nothing but 
folly gone mad erotically — a thing compared to which Fal- 
staff' s unbeglamored drinking and drabbing is respectable 
and rightminded. Whoever, then, expects to find Cleopatra 



XXX Three Plays for Puritans 

a Circe and Caesar a hog in these pages, had better lay down 
my book and be spared a disappointment. 

In Caesar, I have used another character with which 
Shakespear has been beforehand. But Shakespear, who 
knew human weakness so well, never knew human strength 
of the Caesarian type. His Caesar is an admitted failure; 
his Lear is a masterpiece. The tragedy of disillusion and 
doubt, of the agonized struggle for a foothold on the quick- 
sand made by an acute observation striving to verify its vain 
attribution of morality and respectability to Nature, of the 
faithless will and the keen eyes that the faithless will is too 
weak to blind; all this will give you a Hamlet or a Mac- 
beth, and win you great applause from literary gentlemen; 
but it will not give you a Julius Caesar. Caesar was not in 
Shakespear, nor in the epoch, now fast waning, which he 
inaugurated. It cost Shakespear no pang to write Caesar 
down for the merely technical purpose of writing Brutus up. 
And what a Brutus ! A perfect Girondin, mirrored in 
Shakespear' s art two hundred years before^the real thing 
came to maturity and talked and stalked and had its head 
duly cut off by the coarser Antonys and Octaviuses of its 
time, who at least knew the difference between life and 
rhetoric. 

It will be said that these remarks can bear no other con- 
struction than an offer of my Caesar to the public as an 
improvement on Shakespear' s. And in fact, that is their 
precise purport. But here let me give a friendly warning 
to those scribes who have so often exclaimed against my 
criticisms of Shakespear as blasphemies against a hitherto 
unquestioned Perfection and Infallibility. Such criticisms 
are no more new than the creed of my Diabolonian Puritan 
or my revival of the humors of Cool as a Cucumber. Too 
much surprise at them betrays an acquaintance with Shake- 
spear criticism so limited as not to include even the prefaces 
of Dr Johnson and the utterances of Napoleon. I have 
merely repeated in the dialect of my own time and in the 



Better than Shakespear? xxxi 

light of its philosophy what they said in the dialect and 
light of theirs. Do not be misled by the Shakespear fanciers 
who, ever since his own time, have delighted in his plays 
just as they might have delighted in a particular breed of 
pigeons if they had never learnt to read. His genuine 
critics, from Ben Jonson to Mr Frank Harris, have always 
kept as far on this side idolatry as I. 

As to our ordinary uncritical citizens, they have been 
slowly trudging forward these three centuries to the point 
which Shakespear reached at a bound in Elizabeth's time. 
Today most of them have arrived there or thereabouts, with 
the result that his plays are at last beginning to be performed 
as he wrote them; and the long line of disgraceful farces, 
melodramas, and stage pageants which actor-managers, from 
Garrick and Cibber to our own contemporaries, have hacked 
out of his plays as peasants have hacked huts out of the Col- 
iseum, are beginning to vanish from the stage. It is a sig- 
nificant fact that the mutilators of Shakespear, who never 
could be persuaded that Shakespear knew his business better 
than they, have ever been the most fanatical of his worship- 
pers. The late Augustin Daly thought no price too 
extravagant for an addition to his collection of Shakespear 
relics; but in arranging Shakespear' s plays for the stage he 
proceeded on the assumption that Shakespear was a botcher 
and he an artist. I am far too good a Shakespearean ever 
to forgive Sir Henry Irving for producing a version of King 
Lear so mutilated that the numerous critics who had never 
read the play could not follow the story of Gloster. Both 
these idolaters of the Bard must have thought Mr Forbes 
Robertson mad because he restored Fortinbras to the stage 
and played as much of Hamlet as there was time for instead 
of as little. And the instant success of the experiment 
probably altered their minds no further than to make them 
think the public mad. Mr Benson actually gives the play 
complete at two sittings, causing the aforesaid numerous 
critics to remark with naive surprise that Polonius is a com- 



xxxii Three Plays for Puritans 

plete and interesting character. It was the age of gross 
ignorance of Shakespear and incapacity for his works that 
produced the indiscriminate eulogies with which we are 
familiar. It was the revival of genuine criticism of those 
works that coincided with the movement for giving genuine 
instead of spurious and silly representations of his plays. 
So much for Bardolatry! 

It does not follow, however, that the right to criticize 
Shakespear involves the power of writing better plays. And 
in fact — do not be surprised at my modesty — I do not pro- 
fess to write better plays. The writing of practicable stage 
plays does not present an infinite scope to human talent ; 
and the dramatists who magnify its difficulties are humbugs. 
The summit of their art has been attained again and again. 
No man will ever write a better tragedy than Lear, a better 
comedy than Le Festin de Pierre or Peer Gynt, a better 
opera than Don Giovanni, a better music drama than The 
Nibelung's Ring, or, for the matter of that, better fashion- 
able plays and melodramas than are now being turned out 
by writers whom nobody dreams of mocking with the word 
immortal. It is the philosophy, the outlook on life, that 
changes, not the craft of the playwright. A generation that 
is thoroughly moralized and patriotized, that conceives virtu- 
ous indignation as spiritually nutritious, that murders the 
murderer and robs the thief, that grovels before all sorts of 
ideals, social, military, ecclesiastical, royal and divine, may 
be, from my point of view, steeped in error ; but it need 
not want for as good plays as the hand of man can produce. 
Only, those plays will be neither written nor relished by 
men in whose philosophy guilt and innocence, and con- 
sequently revenge and idolatry, have no meaning. Such 
men must rewrite all the old plays in terms of their own 
philosophy; and that is why, as Mr Stuart-Glennie has 
pointed out, there can be no new drama without a new phil- 
osophy. To which I may add that there can be no Shake- 
spear or Goethe without one either, nor two Shakespears 



Better than Shakespear ? xxxiii 

in one philosophic epoch, since, as I have said, the first 
great comer in that epoch reaps the whole harvest and 
reduces those w^ho come after to the rank of mere gleaners, 
or, worse than that, fools who go laboriously through all the 
motions of the reaper and binder in an empty field. What 
is the use of writing plays or painting frescoes if you have 
nothing more to say or shew than was said and shewn by 
Shakespear, Michael Angelo, and Raphael ? If these had 
not seen things differently, for better or worse, from the 
dramatic poets of the Townley mysteries, or from Giotto, 
they could not have produced their works: no, not though 
their skill of pen and hand had been double what it was. 
After them there was no need (and need alone nerves men to 
face the persecution in the teeth of which new art is brought 
to birth) to redo the already done, until in due time, when 
their philosophy wore itself out, a new race of nineteenth 
century poets and critics, from Byron to William Morris, 
began, first to speak coldly of Shakespear and Raphael, and 
then to rediscover, in the medieval art which these Renas- 
cence masters had superseded, certain forgotten elements 
which were germinating again for the new harvest. What is 
more, they began to discover that the technical skill of the 
masters was by no means superlative. Indeed, I defy any- 
one to prove that the great epoch makers in fine art have 
owed their position to their technical skill. It is true that 
when we search for examples of a prodigious command of 
language and of graphic line, we can think of nobody better 
than Shakespear and Michael Angelo. But both of 
them laid their arts waste for centuries by leading later 
artists to seek greatness in copying their technique. The 
technique was acquired, refined on, and surpassed over and 
over again; but the supremacy of the two great exemplars 
remained undisputed. As a matter of easily observable 
fact, every generation produces men of extraordinary special 
faculty, artistic, mathematical and linguistic, who for lack 
of new ideas, or indeed of any ideas worth mentioning. 



xxxiv Three Plays for Puritans 

achieve no distinction outside music halls and class rooms, 
although they can do things easily that the great epoch 
makers did clumsily or not at all. The contempt of the 
academic pedant for the original artist is often founded on a 
genuine superiority of technical knowledge and aptitude; he 
is sometimes a better anatomical draughtsman than Raphael, 
a better hand at triple counterpoint than Beethoven, a bet- 
ter versifier than Byron. Nay, this is true not merely of 
pedants, but of men who have produced works of art of some 
note. If technical facility were the secret of greatness in 
art, Mr Swinburne would be greater than Browning and 
Byron rolled into one, Stevenson greater than Scott or 
Dickens, Mendelssohn than Wagner, MacHse than Madox 
Brown. Besides, new ideas make their technique as water 
makes its channel ; and the technician without ideas is as 
useless as the canal constructor without water, though he 
may do very skilfully what the Mississipi does very rudely. 
To clinch the argument, you have only to observe that the 
epoch maker himself has generally begun working profes- 
sionally before his new ideas have mastered him sufficiently 
to insist on constant expression by his art. In such cases 
you are compelled to admit that if he had by chance died 
earlier, his greatness would have remained unachieved, 
although his technical qualifications would have been well 
enough established. The early imitative works of great 
men are usually conspicuously inferior to the best works of 
their forerunners. Imagine Wagner dying after composing 
Rienzi, or Shelley after Zastrozzi ! Would any competent 
critic then have rated Wagner's technical aptitude as high 
as Rossini's, Spontini's, or Meyerbeer's ; or Shelley's as high 
as Moore's? Turn the problem another way: does any- 
one suppose that if Shakespear had conceived Goethe's or 
Ibsen's ideas, he would have expressed them any worse than 
Goethe or Ibsen? Human faculty being what it is, is it 
likely that in our time any advance, except in external con- 
ditions, will take place in the arts of expression sufficient to 



Better than Shakespear? xxxv 

enable an author, without making himself ridiculous, to 
undertake to say what he has to say better than Homer or 
Shakespear? But the humblest author, and much more a 
rather arrogant one like myself, may profess to have some- 
thing to say by this time that neither Homer nor Shake- 
spear said. And the playgoer may reasonably ask to have 
historical events and persons presented to him in the light 
of his own time, even though Homer and Shakespear have 
already shewn them in the light of their time. For exam- 
ple. Homer presented Achilles and Ajax as heroes to the 
world in the Iliads. In due time came Shakespear, who 
said, virtually: I really cannot accept this selfish hound and 
this brawny brute as great men merely because Homer flat- 
tered them in playing to the Greek gallery. Consequently 
we have, in Troilus and Cressida, the verdict of Shakespear' s 
epoch (our own) on the pair. This did not in the least 
involve any pretence on Shakespear' s part to be a greater 
poet than Homer. 

When Shakespear in turn came to deal with Henry V 
and Julius Caesar, he did so according to his own essentially 
knightly conception of a great statesman-commander. But 
in the XIX century comes the German historian Mommsen, 
who also takes Caesar for his hero, and explains the im- 
mense difference in scope between the perfect knight 
Vercingetorix and his great conqueror Julius Csesar. In 
this country, Carlyle, with his vein of peasant inspiration, 
apprehended the sort of greatness that places the true hero 
of history so far beyond the mere preux chevalier , whose 
fanatical personal honor, gallantry and self-sacrifice, are 
founded on a passion for death born of inability to bear the 
weight of a life that will not grant ideal conditions to the 
liver. This one ray of perception became Carlyle' s whole 
stock-in-trade; and it sufficed to make a literary master of 
him. In due time, when Mommsen is an old man, and 
Carjyle dead, come I, and dramatize the by-this-time familiar 
distinction in Arms and the Man, with its comedic conflict 



\^ 



xxxvi Three Plays for Puritans 

between the knightly Bulgarian and the Mommsenite Swiss 
captain. Whereupon a great many playgoers who have not 
yet read Shakespear, much less Mommsen and Carlyle, raise 
a shriek of concern for their knightly ideal as if nobody had 
ever questioned its sufficiency since the middle ages. Let 
them thank me for educating them so far. And let them 
allow me to set forth Caesar in the same modern hght, taking 
the same liberty with Shakespear as he with Homer, and 
with no thought of pretending to express the Mommsenite 
view of Caesar any better than Shakespear expressed a view 
which was not even Plutarchian, and must, I fear, be re- 
ferred to the tradition in stage conquerors established by 
Marlowe's Tamerlane as much as to even the chivalrous 
conception of heroism dramatized in Henry V. 

For my own part, I can avouch that such powers of 
invention, humor and stage ingenuity as I have been able 
to exercise in Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant, and in 
these Three Plays for Puritans, availed me not at all until 
I saw the old facts in a new light. Technically, I do not 
find myself able to proceed otherwise than as former play- 
wrights have done. True, my plays have the latest mechanical 
improvements: the action is not carried on by impossible 
soHloquys and asides; and my people get on and off the 
stage without requiring four doors to a room which in real 
Hfe would have only one. But my stories are the old stories; 
my characters are the familiar harlequin and columbine, 
clown and pantaloon (note the harlequin's leap in the third 
act of Caesar and Cleopatra); my stage tricks and suspenses 
and thrills and jests are the ones in vogue when I was a 
boy, by which time my grandfather was tired of them. To 
the young people who make their acquaintance for the first 
time in my plays, they may be as novel as Cyrano's nose to 
those who have never seen Punch; whilst to older play- 
goers the unexpectedness of my attempt to substitute natural 
history for conventional ethics and romantic logic may so 



Better than Shakespear? xxxvii 

transfigure the eternal stage puppets and their inevitable 
dilemmas as to make their identification impossible for the 
moment. If so, so much the better for me: I shall perhaps 
enjoy a few years of immortality. But the whirligig of 
time will soon bring my audiences to my own point of view; 
and then the next Shakespear that comes along will turn 
these petty tentatives of mine into masterpieces final for 
their epoch. By that time my twentieth century charac- 
teristics will pass unnoticed as a matter of course, whilst 
the eighteenth century artificiality that marks the work of 
every literary Irishman of my generation will seem antiquated 
and silly. It is a dangerous thing to be hailed at once, as 
a few rash admirers have hailed me, as above all things 
original: what the world calls originality is only an un- 
accustomed method of tickling it. Meyerbeer seemed 
prodigiously original to the Parisians when he first burst on 
them. To-day, he is only the crow who followed Beethoven's 
plough. I am a crow who have followed many ploughs. No 
doubt I seem prodigiously clever to those who have never 
hopped, hungry and curious, across the fields of philosophy, 
politics and art. Karl Marx said of Stuart Mill that his 
eminence was due to the flatness of the surrounding country. 
In these days of Board Schools, universal reading, cheap 
newspapers, and the inevitable ensuing demand for nota- 
bilities of all sorts, literary, military, political and fashion- 
able, to write paragraphs about, that sort of eminence is 
within the reach of very moderate ability. Reputations are 
cheap nowadays. Even were they dear, it would still be 
impossible for any public-spirited citizen of the world to 
hope that his reputation might endure; for this would be 
to hope that the flood of general enlightenment may never 
rise above his miserable high-watermark. I hate to think 
that Shakespear has lasted 300 years, though he got no 
further than Koheleth the Preacher, who died many 
centuries before him; or that Plato, more than 2,000 years 



xxxviii Three Plays for Puritans 

old, is still ahead of our voters. We must hurry on: we n- 
must get rid of reputations: they are weeds in the soil of 
ignorance. Cultivate that soil, and they will flower more 
beautifully, but only as annuals. If this preface will at all 
help to get rid of mine, the writing of it will have been well 
worth the pains. 

Surrey, igoo 



THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 
LONDON, 1897 



THE DEVIL^S DISCIPLE 

ACT I 

At the most wretched hour between a black night and a 
wintry morning in the year 1777, Mrs Dudgeon y of New 
Hampshire y is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling 
room of her farm house on the outskirts of the town of Web- 
sterbridge. She is not a prepossessing woman. No woman 
looks her best after sitting up all night; and Mrs Dudgeon* s 
face, even at its best, is grimly trenched by the channels into 
which the barren forms and observances of a dead Puritanism 
can pen a bitter temper and a fierce pride. She is an elderly 
matron who has worked hard and got nothing by it except 
dominion and detestation in her sordid home, and an unques- 
tioned reputation for piety and respectability among her neigh- 
bors, to whom drink and debauchery are still so much more 
tempting than religion and rectitude, that they conceive good- 
ness simply as self-denial. This conception is easily extended 
to others-denial, and finally generalised as covering a?iy thing 
disagreeable. So Mrs Dudgeon, being exceedingly disagree- 
able, is held to be exceedingly good. Short of flat felony, 
she enjoys complete license except for amiable weaknesses of 
a?iy sort, and is consequently, without knowing it, the most 
licentious woman in the parish on the strength of never hav- 
ing broken the seventh commandment or missed a Sunday at 
the Presbyterian church. 

The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused by 
the breaking-off of the American colonies from England, more 
by their own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting 



6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

point, the shooting being idealized to the English mind as 
suppression of rebellion and maintenance of British dominion, 
and to the American as defence of liberty, resistance to tyranny, 
and self-sacrifice on the altar of the Rights of Man. Into 
the merits of these idealizations it is not here necessary to 
inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they have 
convinced both Americans and English that the most high 
minded course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one 
another as possible, and that military operations to that end 
are in full swing, morally supported by confident requests from 
the clergy of both sides for the blessing of God on their 
arms. 

Under such circumstances many other women besides this 
disagreeable Mrs Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night 
waiting for news. Like her, too, they fall asleep towards 
morning at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. 
Mrs Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her 
feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the domestic 
altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its 
hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The 
plain kitchen table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a 
candle on it in a tin sconce. Her chair, like all the others in 
the room, is uncushioned and unpainted ; but as it has a round 
railed back and a seat conventionally moulded to the sitter"* s 
curves, it is comparatively a chair of state. The room has 
three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near the 
corner, leading to the best bedroom ; one, at the opposite end 
of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; 
and the housedoor, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy 
wooden bar, in the front wall, between the window in its 
middle and the corner next the bedroom door. Between the 
door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the deductive 
observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are 
no hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window 
the clock hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black 
iron weights, and brass pendulum. Between the clock and 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 7 

the corner, a big cupboard, locked, stands on a dwarf dresser 
full of common crockery. 

On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and 
the corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands 
against the wall. An inspection of its stridulous surface 
shew: that Mrs Dudgeon is not alone. A girl of sixteen or 
seventeen has fallen asleep on it. She is a wild, timid look- 
ing creature with black hair and tanned skin. Her frock, a 
scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by 
no means scrupulously clean. It hangs on her with a freedom 
which, taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no 
great stock of underclothing. 

Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough 
to wake the sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs 
Dudgeon a little. Finally the latch is tried, whereupon she 
springs up at once. 

MRS DUDGEON [threateningly'\ Well, why dont you open 
the door? [She sees that the girl is asleep, and immediately 
raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation'^. Well, dear, dear me! 
Now this is — \jhaking her] wake up, wake up : do you 
hear ? 

THE GIRL [sitting up] What is it ? 

MRS DUDGEON. Wake up ; and be ashamed of yourself, 
you unfeeling sinfjl girl, falling asleep like that, and your 
father hardly cold in his grave. 

THE GIRL [half asleep still] I didnt mean to. I dropped 
off— 

MRS DUDGEON [cutting her short] Oh yes, youve plenty 
of excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! [Fiercely, as the 
knocking recommences] Why dont you get up and let your 
uncle in.? after me waiting up all night for him! [She pushes 
her rudely off the sofa], Therd: I'll open the door: much 
good you are to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit. 

The girl, cowed and wretched, goci to the fire and puts a 
log on. Mrs Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting 



8 Three Plays for Puritans Act 1 

into the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal 
of the chill of the dawn, also her second son Christy, afattish, 
stupid, fair hair edy roundfaced man of ahout 22, muffled in a 
plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He hurries, shivering, to 
the fire, leaving Mrs Dudgeon to shut the door. 

CHRISTY \at the fire'] F — f — f ! but it is cold. \_Seeing 
the girl, and staring lumpishly at her] Why, who are you ? 

THE GIRL [j^^/y] Essie. 

MRS DUDGEON. Oh, you may well ask. \^To Essie] Go 
to your room, child, and lie down, since you havnt feeling 
enough to keep you awake. Your history isnt fit for your 
own ears to hear. 

ESSIE. I — 

MRS DUDGEON [j>eremptorily] Dont answer me. Miss; but 
shew your obedience by doing what I tell you. [^Essie, 
almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa] . 
And dont forget your prayers. \Essie goes out] . She'd 
have gone to bed last night just as if nothing had happened 
if I'd let her. 

CHRISTY [^phlegmatically] Well, she cant be expected to 
feel Uncle Peter's death like one of the family. 

MRS DUDGEON. What are you talking about, child? Isnt 
she his daughter — the punishment of his wickedness and 
shame ? J^She assaults her chair by sitting down] . 

CHRISTY [staring] Uncle Peter's daughter! 

MRS DUDGEON. Why clsc should she be here? D'ye think 
Ive not had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing 
up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing 
brother, without having your uncle's bastards — 

CHRISTY [interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at 
the door by which Essie went out] Sh! She may hear 
you. 

MRS DUDGEON [raising her voice] Let her hear me. 
People who fear God dont fear to give the devil's work its 
right name. [Christy, soulless ly indifferent to the strife of 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 9 

Good and Evily stares at the fire ^ warming himself]. Well, 
how long are you going to stare there like a stuck pig? 
What news have you for me? 

CHRISTY [taking off his hat and shawl and going to the 
rack to hang them up\ The minister is to break the news to 
you. He'll be here presently. 

MRS DUDGEON. Break what news? 

CHRISTY [standing on tiptoe ^ from boyish habit y to hang his 
hat upy though he is quite tall enough to reach the pegy and 
speaking with callous placidity y considering the nature of the 
announcement] Father's dead too. 

MRS DUDGEON [stupent] Your father! 

CHRISTY [sulkily y coming back to the fire and warming 
himself again y attending much more to the fire than to his 
mother] Well, it's not my fault. When we got to Nev- 
instown we found him ill in bed. He didnt know us at 
first. The minister sat up with him and sent me away. 
He died in the night. 

MRS DUDGEON [bursting into dry angry tears] Well, I 
do think this is hard on me — very hard on me. His 
brother, that was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on 
the public gallows as a rebel; and your father, instead of 
staying at home where his duty was, with his own family, 
goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. 
After sending this girl to me to take care of, too! [She 
plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears]. It's sinful, so it is; 
downright sinful. 

CHRISTY [with a slowy bovine cheerfulnessy after a 
pause] I think it's going to be a fine morning, after all. 

MRS DUDGEON [railing at him] A fine morning! And 
your father newly dead! Wheres your feelings, child? 

CHRISTY [obstinately] Well, I didn't mean any harm. I 
suppose a man may make a remark about the weather even 
if his father's dead. 

MRS DUDGEON [bitterly] A nice comfort my children 
are to me! One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner 



lo Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

thats left his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and 
villains, the scum of the earth ! 

Someone knocks. 

CHRISTY [without moving\ That's the minister. 

MRS DUDGEON \jharplj\ Well, arnt you going to let 
Mr Anderson in? 

Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs Dudgeon buries 
her face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be over- 
come with grief. Christy opens the door, and admits the 
minister, Anthony Anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready Presby- ' 
terian divine of about jo, with something of the authority of 
his profession in his bearing. But it is an altogether secular 
authority, sweetened by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at 
all suggestive of a quite thoroughgoing other-worldliness. He 
ts a strong, healthy man, too, with a thick, sanguine neck; 
and his keen, cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. 
No doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of 
making the most of this world, and perhaps a little apologet- 
ically conscious of getti?ig on better with it than a sound Pres- 
byterian ought. 

ANDERSON \to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs 
Dudgeon whilst he takes off his cloak~\ Have you told her? 

CHRISTY. She made me. \_He shuts the door,- yawns,- and 
loafs across to the sofa, where he sits down and presently drops 
off to sleepy . 

Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs Dudgeon. Then 
he hangs his cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs Dudgeon dries 
her eyes and looks up at him. 

ANDERSON. Sistcr: the Lord has laid his hand very 
heavily upon you. 

MRS DUDGEON \with intensely recalcitrant resignation\ 
It*s His vi^ill, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do 
think it hard. What call had Timothy to go to Spring- 
town, and remind everybody that he belonged to a man that 
was being hanged? — and \spitefully'\ that deserved it, if 
ever a man did. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 1 1 

A^DERSON [^gent/y'j They were brothers, Mrs Dudgeon. 

MRS DUDGEON. Timothy never acknowledged him as 
his brother after we were married: he had too much respect 
for me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a 
selfish wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timo- 
thy hanged, do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. How- 
ever, I must bear my cross as best I may: least said is 
soonest mended. 

ANDERSON [very grave t coming dozuji to the fire to stand 
with his back to //] Your eldest son was present at the exe- 
cution, Mrs Dudgeon. 

MRS DUDGEON \_dis agreeably surprised~\ Richard? 

ANDERSON \nodding\ Yes. 

MRS DUDGEON \yindictively'\ Let it be a warning to 
him. He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, 
godless — \jhe suddenly stops ; her voice fails ; and she asksy 
with evident dread'j Did Timothy see him ? 

ANDERSON. YcS. 

MRS DUDGEON [_holding her breath'\ Well ? 

ANDERSON. He Only saw him in the crowd: they did not 
speak. \Mrs Dudgeon^ greatly relieved, exhales the pent up 
breath and sits at her ease again~\ . Your husband was 
greatly touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. 
\_Mrs Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to demand zuith 
some indignation']^ Well, wasnt it only natural, Mrs Dudgeon? 
He softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He 
sent for him to come to see him. 

MRS DUDGEON \her alarm renewed^ Sent for Richard ! 

ANDERSON. Ycs; but Richard would not come. He sent 
his father a message; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked 
message — an awful message. 

MRS DUDGEON. What was it ? 

ANDERSON. That he would stand by his wicked uncle>, 
and Stand against his good parents, in this world and the next. 

MRS DUDGEON \implacably'\ He will be punished for it. 
He will be punished for it — in both worlds. 



1 2 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

ANDERSON. That is not in our hands, Mrs Dudgeon. 

MRS DUDGEON. Did I Say it was, Mr Anderson.? We 
are told that the wicked shall be punished. Why should 
we do our duty and keep God's law if there is to be no 
difference made between us and those who follow their own 
likings and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their 
Maker's word? 

ANDERSON. Well, Richard* s earthly father has been merci- 
ful to him; and his heavenly judge is the father of us all. 

MRS DUDGEON \^for getting herself^ Richard's earthly 
father was a softheaded — 

ANDERSON \jhoche(f\ Oh ! 

MRS DUDGEON \with a touch of sham e\ Well, I am Rich- 
ard's mother. If I am against him who has any right to be 
for him ? \Trying to conciliate him] Wont you sit down, 
Mr Anderson.? I should have asked you before; but I'm 
so troubled. 

ANDERSON. Thank you. [He takes a chair from beside 
the fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at 
the fire. When he is seated he addsy in the tone of a man 
who knows that he is opening a difiicult subject"] Has Christy 
told you about the new will ? 

MRS DUDGEON \_all her fears returning] The new will! 
Did Timothy — ? \She breaks off, gasping, unable to com- 
plete the question] . 

ANDERSON. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind. 

MRS DUDGEON \_white with intense rage] And you let him 
rob me ? 

ANDERSON. I had no power to prevent him giving what 
was his to his own son. 

MRS DUDGEON. He had nothing of his own. His money 
was the money I brought him as my marriage portion. It 
was for me to deal with my own money and my own son. 
He dare not have done it if I had been with him; and well 
he knew it. That was why he stole away like a thief to 
take advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 13 

behind my back. The more shame on you, Mr Anderson, 
— you, a minister of the gospel — to act as his accomplice 
in such a crime. 

ANDERSON [rising] I will take no offence at what you 
say in the first bitterness of your grief. 

MRS DUDGEON [coTitemptuouslj] Grief! 

ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can 
find it in your heart to think that the better word, 

MRS DUDGEON. My heart ! My heart ! And since when, 
pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy 
guides for us ? 

ANDERSON \rather guiltilj\ I — er — 

MRS DUDGEON \vehemently\ Dontlie, Mr Anderson. We 
are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, 
and desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to 
Timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that has 
just ended his days with a rope round his neck — aye, to 
Peter Dudgeon. You know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man 
to whose pulpit you succeeded, though you are not worthy 
to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he gave over our 
souls into your charge. He warned me and strengthened 
me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing 
man — as he thought. What else but that discipline has made 
me the woman I am? And you, you, who followed your 
heart in your marriage, you talk to me of what I find in my 
heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man ; and leave me 
to my prayers. \She turns from him and leans with her 
elbows on the tabky brooding over her wrongs and taking no 
further notice of him'] . 

ANDERSON \willing enough to escape] The lord forbid that 
I should come between you and the source of all comfort ! 
\He goes to the rack for his coat and hat] . 

MRS DUDGEON \without looking at him] The Lord will 
know what to forbid and what to allow without your help. 

ANDERSON. And whom to forgive, I hope — Eli Hawkins 
and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against 



14 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

His law. [ He fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go"] . 
Just one word — on necessary business, Mrs Dudgeon. 
There is the reading of the will to be gone through ; and 
Richard has a right to be present. He is in the town ; but 
he has the grace to say that he does not want to force him- 
self in here. 

MRS DUDGEON. He shall come here. Does he expect 
us to leave his father's house for his convenience .? Let 
them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly. They 
shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day's 
work. I shall be ready, never fear. 

ANDERSON [coming back a step or tzvo'\ Mrs Dudgeon: I 
used to have some little influence with you. When did I 
lose \t} 

MRS DUDGEON [stUI without tuming to him'\ When you 
married for love. Now youre answered. 

ANDERSON. Ycs: I am answcrcd. \_He goes out, musing']. 

MRS DUDGEON [to herself , thinking of her husband~\ Thief! 
Thief! ! [She shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws 
back the shazvlfrom her head ; and sets to work to prepare 
the room for the reading of the will, begin?iing by replacing 
Anderson* s chair against the wall, and pushing back her own 
to the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving, 
wrathful way'] Christy. [No answer: he is fast asleep]. 
Christy. [She shakes him roughly] . Get up out of that ; and 
be ashamed of yourself — sleeping, and your father dead ! 
[She returns to the table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; 
and takes from the table drawer a red table cloth which she 
spreads] . 

CHRISTY [rising reluctantly] Well, do you suppose we 
are never going to sleep until we are out of mourning ? 

MRS DUDGEON. I Want nonc of your sulks. Here : help 
me to set this table. [They place the table in the middle of 
the room, with Christ f s end towards the fireplace and Mrs 
Dudgeon* s towards the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon 
as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make 



Act I The Devirs Disciple 15 

the Jinai adjustments of its positio?f\ . We shall have the min- 
ister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read 
the will before you have done toasting yourself. Go and 
wake that girl ; and then light the stove in the shed : you 
cant have your breakfast here. And mind you wash your- 
self, and make yourself fit to receive the company. [^She 
punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; 
and producing a decanter of wine, tvhich has no doubt stood 
there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and 
some glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green 
ware plates, on one of which she puts a barnbrack with a knife 
beside it. On the other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, 
putting back one or two, and counting the rest~\. Now mind: 
there are ten biscuits there : let there be ten there when I 
come back after dressing myself. And keep your fingers off 
the raisins in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I sup- 
pose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds 
without breaking the glass.? \She replaces the tin in the 
cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully~\ . 

CHRISTY \lingering at the fir e^ Youd better put the ink- 
stand instead, for the lawyer. 

MRS DUDGEON. Thats no answer to make to me, sir. 
Go and do as youre told. \Christy turns sullenly to obey']. 
Stop : take down that shutter before you go, and let the 
daylight in: you cant expect me to do all the heavy work 
of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about. 

Christy takes the window bar out of its clamps, and puts it 
aside; then opens the shutter, shewing the grey morning. Mrs 
Dudgeon takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blowi out the 
candle; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, 
first licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on 
the shelf. 

CHRISTY \looking through the window] Here's the min- 
ister's wife. 

MRS DUDGEON [dispkased] What! Is she coming here? 

CHRISTY. Yes. 



1 6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

MRS DUDGEON. What docs she want troubling me at this 
hour, before I'm properly dressed to receive people? 

CHRISTY. Youd better ask her. 

MRS DUDGEON \^threateningly\ Youd better keep a civil 
tongue in your head. \He goes sulkily towards the door. She 
comes after him, plying him with instructions'^ . Tell that 
girl to come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. And 
tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. 
^Christy goes out and slams the door in her face~\. Nice 
manners, that ! [_Someone knocks at the house door: she turns 
and cries inhospitably'^ Come in. [Judith Anderson, the 
minister's wifcy comes in. Judith is more than twenty years 
younger than her husband, though she will never be as young 
as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper and ladylike, and 
has been admired and petted into an opinion of herself suffi- 
ciently favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her 
instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in 
her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by 
dreams. Even her little self complacency is pretty, like a 
child's vanity. Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic 
observer who knows how rough a place the world is. One 
feels, on the whole, that Anderson might have chosen worse, 
and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better's^ . 
Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs Anderson? 

JUDITH \yery politely — almost patronizingly^^ Yes. Can I 
do anything for you, Mrs Dudgeon? Can I help to get 
the place ready before they come to read the will ? 

MRS DUDGEON \jtiffly'] Thank you, Mrs Anderson, my 
house is always ready for anyone to come into. 

MRS ANDERSON [with complaccnt amiability'\ Yes, indeed 
it is. Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you just 
now. 

MRS DUDGEON. Oh, onc morc or less will make no 
difference this morning, Mrs Anderson. Now that youre 
here, youd better stay. If you wouldnt mind shutting the 
door! \_Judith smiles, implying ** How stupid of me T' and 



Act I The DeviFs Disciple 17 

shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty 
and becoming^ . Thats better. I must go and tidy myself 
a bit. I suppose you dont mind stopping here to receive 
anyone that comes until I'm ready. 

JUDITH [graciously giving her leave] Oh yes, certainly. 
Leave them to me, Mrs Dudgeon; and take your time. 
\_She hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack] . 

MRS DUDGEON [half sneering] I thought that would be 
more in your way than getting the house ready. [Essie 
comes back]. Oh, here you are! [Severely] Come here: 
let me see you. [Essie timidly goes to her. Mrs Dudgeon 
takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect 
the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself — results 
which shew little practice and less co7iviction]. Mm! Thats 
what you call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It's 
easy to see what you are, and how you were brought up. 
[ She throws her arms away, and goes on, peremptorily'^ Now 
you listen to me and do as youre told. You sit down there 
in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes dont 
dare co speak until youre spoken to. [Essie creeps away 
to the fireplace~\. Your father's people had better see you 
and know youre there : theyre as much bound to keep you 
from starvation as I am. At any rate they might help. 
But let me have no chattering and making free with them, 
as if you were their equal. Do you hear.? 

ESSIE. Yes. 

MRS DUDGEON. Well, then go and do as youre told. 
[Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest 
from the door'\. Never mind her, Mrs Anderson: you know 
who she is and what she is. If she gives you any trouble, 
just tell me; and I'll settle accounts with her. [Mrs 
Dudgeon goes into the bedroom^ shutting the door sharply 
behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty with a 
ruthless hand] , 

JUDITH [patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and 
wine on the table more becomingly'^ You must not mind if 



1 8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

your aunt is strict with you. She is a very good woman, 
and desires your good too. 

ESSIE [in listless misery] Yes. 

JUDITH [annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled 
and edified^ and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the 
remark\ You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie. 

ESSIE. No. 

JUDITH. Thats a good girl ! [She places a couple of chairs 
at the table zuith their backs to the window y with a pleasant 
sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs 
Dudgeon^. Do you know any of your father's relatives? 

ESSIE. No. They wouldnt have anything to do with 
him : they were too religious. Father used to talk about 
Dick Dudgeon ; but I never saw him. 

JUDITH [ostentatiously shocked^ Dick Dudgeon ! Essie: 
do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and 
to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct? 

ESSIE [very halfheartedly] Yes. 

JUDITH. Then you must never mention the name of 
Richard Dudgeon — never even think about him. He is a 
bad man. 

ESSIE. What has he done ? 

JUDITH. You must not ask questions about him, Essie. 
You are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. 
But he is a smuggler ; and he lives with gypsies ; and he 
has no love for his mother and his family ; and he wrestles 
and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church. 
Never let him into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; 
and try to keep yourself and all womanhood unspotted by 
contact with such men. 

ES51E. Yes. 

JUDITH [again displeased^ I am afraid you say Yes and 
No without thinking very deeply. 

ESSIE. Yes. At least I mean — 

JUDITH [severely'] What do you mean ? 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 19 

ESSIE [almost crying\ Only — my father was a smuggler ; 
and — [Someone knocks^. 

JUDITH. They are beginning to come. Now remember 
your aunt's directions, Essie; and be a good girl. [^Christy 
comes back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, 
and an inkstand , which he places on the table']. Good 
morning, Mr Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please : 
the people have come. 

CHRISTY. Good morning. [//«? opens the house door'] . 

The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Ander- 
son, who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He 
is accompanied by Lazvyer Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man 
in brown riding gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much 
squire as solicitor. He and Anderson are allowed precedence 
as representing the learned professions. After them comes the 
family, headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large, 
shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. 
His clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the zvife, of 
a prosperous man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry 
little terrier of a man, zvith an immense and visibly purse- 
proud wife, both free from the cares of the William household, 

Hazvkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair 
nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He 
puts his hat on the fioor beside him, and produces the will. 
Uncle William comes to the fire and stands on the hearth 
warming his coat tails, leaving Mrs William derelict near 
the door. Uncle Titus, who is the ladf s man of the family, 
rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and brifiging her 
to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady 
and his brother'' s. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for 
a word with Judith. 

JUDITH. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to 
wait. \She taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer 
from within, she opens it and passes through] . 

ANDERSON \_taking his place at the table at the opposite end 



20 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

to Hawkins^ Oar poor afflicted sister will be with us in a 
moment. Are we all here ? 

CHRISTY \_at the house door, which he has just shut"] All 
except Dick. 

The callousness with which Christy natnes the reprobate 
jars on the moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes 
his head slowly and repeatedly. Mrs Titus catches her breath 
convulsively through her nose. Her husband speaks. 

UNCLE TITUS. Well, I hopc he will have the grace not 
to come. I hope so. 

The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who 
goes to the window and posts himself there, looking out. 
Hawkins smiles secretively as if he knew something that would 
change their tune if they knew it. Anderson is uneasy: the 
love of solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not 
in his nature. Judith appears at the bedroom door. 

JUDITH \with gentle impressivenesf^ Friends, Mrs 
Dudgeon. \She takes the chair from beside the fireplace ; 
and places it for Mrs Dudgeon, who comes fro?n the bedroom 
in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, 
except Essie. Mrs Titus and Mrs William produce equally 
clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment^ . 

UNCLE WILLIAM. Would it comfort you, sister, if we 
were to offer up a prayer ? 

UNCLE TITUS. Or sing a hymn ? 

ANDERSON [rather hastily^ I have been with our sister 
this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a 
blessing. 

ALL [except Essie"] Amen. 

They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs 
Dudgeon^ s chair. 

JUDITH \to Essie"] Essie : did you say Amen ? 

ESSIE [scaredly] No. 

JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl. 

ESSIE. Amen. 

UNCLE WILLIAM [encouragingly] Thats right: thats right. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 21 

We know who you are ; but we are willing to be kind to 
you if you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal 
before the Throne. 

This republican sentiment does not please the women ^ who 
are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place where 
their superiority , often questioned in this world, will be rec- 
ognized and rewarded. 

CHRISTY \at the window'\ Here's Dick. 

Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie ^ with a 
gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. 
Christy grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest 
are petrified with the intensity of their sense of Virtue men^ 
aced with outrage by the approach of fiaunting Vice. The 
reprobate appears in the doorway , graced beyond his alleged 
merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly tbe best 
looking member of the family; but his expression is reckless 
and sardonic, his manner defiant and satirical, his dress pic- 
turesquely careless. Only, his forehead and mouth betray an 
extraordinary steadfastness ; and his eyes are the eyes of a 
fanatic. 

RICHARD \on the threshold, taking off his hat'\ Ladies and 
gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. \With 
this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a 
suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, 
and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and 
deliberately surveys the company^. How happy you all look! 
how glad to see me ! \He turns towards Mrs Dudgeon's chair; 
and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her 
look of undisguised hatred \. Well, mother: keeping up 
appearances as usual ? thats right, thats right. \_Judith 
pointedly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side 
of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it 
from contaminathn. Uncle Titus promptly marks his approval 
of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for 
her to sit down upjn'\. What! Uncle WilHam! I havnt seen 
you since you gave up drinking. \Poor Uncle William, 



22 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

shamedy would protest; hut Richard claps him heartily on his 
shoulder y adding^ you have given it up, havnt you? [releas- 
ifig him with a playful push] of course you have: quite right 
too: you overdid it. \^He turns azvay from Uncle William 
and makes for the sofa] . And now, w^here is that upright 
horsedealer Uncle Titus ? Uncle Titus : come forth. \_He 
comes upon him holding the chair as Judith sits down~\ . As 
usual, looking after the ladies ! 

UNCLE TITUS [indignantly] Be ashamed of yourself, sir — 

RICHARD [interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite 
of him] I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle — proud of 
all my relatives — [again surveying them] w^ho could look at 
them and not be proud and joyful? [Uncle Titus, overborne, 
resumes his seat on the sofa, Richard turns to the table] . Ah, 
Mr Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding 
them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them 
up to the mark. Come ! [with a spring he seats himself on 
the table and takes up the decanter] clink a glass with me. 
Pastor, for the sake of old times. 

ANDERSON. You know, I think, Mr Dudgeon, that I do 
not drink before dinner. 

RICHARD. You will, some day. Pastor : Uncle William 
used to drink before breakfast. Come : it will give your ser- 
mons unction. \He smells the wine and makes a wry face] . 
But do not begin on my mother's company sherry. I stole 
some when I was six years old ; and I have been a tem- 
perate man ever since. [He puts the decanter down and 
changes the subject] . So I hear you are married, Pastor, 
and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good 
looks. 

ANDERSON [quictly indicating Judith] Sir: you are in the 
presence of my wife. [Judith rises and stands with stony 
propriety] . 

RICHARD [quickly slipping down from the table with instinc- 
tive good ma?iners] Your servant, madam: no offence. [He 
looks at her earnestly]. You deserve your reputation ; but 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 23 

I'm sorry to see by your expression that youre a good woman. 
[She looks shockedy and sits down amid a murmur of indignant 
sympathy from his relatives, Anderson^ sensible enough to 
know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage 
a man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains 
perfectly goodhumored^. All the same. Pastor, I respect you 
more than I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did 
I not, that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, 
was a father ? 

UNCLE TITUS. He had only one irregular child, sir. 

RICHARD. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I 
blush for you. Uncle Titus. 

ANDERSON. Mr Dudgcon : you are in the presence of 
your mother and her grief. 

RICHARD. It touches me profoundly. Pastor. By the 
way, what has become of the irregular child? 

ANDERSON [pointing to Essie'] There, sir, listening to you. 

RICHARD [shocked into sincerity] What! Why the devil 
didnt you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in 
this house without — [He hurries remorsefully to Essie]. 
Come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to 
hurt you. [She looks up gratefully at him. Her tear stained 
face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of 
wrath] Who has been making her cry? Who has been 
iil-treating her? By God — 

MRS DUDGEON [rising and confronting him] Silence your 
blasphemous tongue. I will bear no more of this. Leave 
my house. 

RICHARD. How do you know it's your hoiise until the 
will is read? [They look at one another for a moment with 
intense hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. 
Richard goes boldly up past Anderson to the window, where 
he takes the railed chair in his hand] . liadies and gentle- 
men: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy 
head of this household, I bid you welcome. By your 



24 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

leave. Minister Anderson: by your leave. Lawyer Hawkins. 
The head of the table for the head of the family. \_He 
places the chair at the table between the minister and the 
attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly 
with a presidential air~\. We meet on a melancholy occa- 
sion: a father dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably 
damned. [He shakes his head dep lovingly. The relatives 
freeze with horror~\. Thats right: pull your longest faces 
[his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on 
Essie~\ provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child. 
[Briskly^ Now then. Lawyer Hawkins: business, business. 
Get on with the will, man. 

TITUS. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr 
Hawkins. 

HAWKINS [very politely and willingly^ Mr Dudgeon means 
no offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second, 
Mr Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses — [he fumbles 
for them. The Dudgeons look at one another with misgiving']. 

RICHARD. Aha! They notice your civility, Mr Hawkins. 
They are prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear 
your voice before you begin. [He pours out one for him and 
hands it; then pours one for himself']. 

HAWKINS. Thank you, Mr Dudgeon. Your good health, 
sir. 

RICHARD. Yours, sir. [With the glass halfway to his 
lips, he checks himself giving a dubious glance at the wine, 
and adds, with quaint intensity] Will anyone oblige me with 
a glass of water? 

Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and move- 
ment, rises stealthily and slips out behind Mrs Dudgeon 
through the bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and 
going out of the house as quietly as possible. 

HAWKINS. The will is not exactly in proper legal phrase- 
ology. 

RICHARD. No: my father died without the consolations 
of the law. 



Act I The Devirs Disciple 25 

HAWKINS. Good again, Mr Dudgeon, good again. \^Pre- 
paring to reaJ^ Are you ready, sir? 

RICHARD. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about 
to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead. 

HAWKINS [^readi/!g^ '*This is the last will and testament 
of me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown 
on the road from Springtown to Websterbridge on this 
twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand seven hun- 
dred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills 
made by me and declare that I am of sound mind and know 
well what I am doing and that this is my real will accord- 
ing to my own wish and affections." 

RICHARD [glancing at his mother\ Aha ! 

HAWKINS \5haking his head^ Bad phraseology, sir, wrong 
phraseology. '*I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to 
my younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be 
paid to him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if 
she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of 
his children up to the number of five." 

RICHARD. How if she wont have him? 

CHRISTY. She will if I have fifty pounds. 

RICHARD. Good, my brother. Proceed. 

HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath to my wife Annie 
Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose" — you see he did not 
know the law, Mr Dudgeon: your mother was not born 
Annie: she was christened so — *'an annuity of fifty two 
pounds a year for life [Mrs Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, 
holds herself convulsively rigid^ to be paid out of the interest 
on her own money" — there's a way to put it, Mr 
Dudgeon! Her own money! 

MRS DUDGEON. A vcry good way to put God's truth. 
It was every penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year! 

HAWKINS. *'And I recommend her for her goodness and 
piety to the forgiving care of her children, having stood 
between them and her as far as 1 could to the best of my 
ability." 



26 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

MRS DUDGEON. And this is my reward! [raging inwardly^ 
You know what I think, Mr Anderson: you know the word 
I gave to it. 

ANDERSON. It cannot be helped, Mrs Dudgeon. We 
must take what comes to us. \_To Hazvkins]. Go on, sir. 

HAWKINS. ** I give and bequeath my house at Webster- 
bridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of my 
property soever to my eldest son and heir, Richard 
Dudgeon." 

RICHARD. Oho! The fatted calf. Minister, the fatted calf. 

HAWKINS. **On these conditions — " 

RICHARD. The devil! Are there conditions.? 

HAWKINS. **To wit: first, that he shall not let my 
brother Peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to 
an evil life." 

RICHARD [emphatically y striking his fist on the table'] 
Agreed. 

Mrs Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, 
misses her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved 
to; then, seeing that she has left the room zvithout leave, 
closes her lips venge fully. 

HAWKINS. *' Second, that he shall be a good friend to my 
old horse Jim" — [again shaking his head] he should have 
written James, sir. 

RICHARD. James shall live in clover. Go on. 

HAWKINS. — **and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger 
Feston in his service." 

RICHARD. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday. 

HAWKINS. ** Third, that he make Christy a present on 
his marriage out of the ornaments in the best room." 

RICHARD, [holding up the stuffed birds] Here you are, 
Christy. 

CHRISTY [disappointed] I'd rather have the china pea- 
cocks. 

RICHARD. You shall have both. [Christy is greatly 
pleased]. Go on. 



Act I The Devil's Disciple 27 

HAWKINS. ** Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at 
peace with his mother as far as she will consent to it." 

RICHARD \^dubiousIy\ Hm! Anything more, Mr Hawkins? 

HAWKINS \_soiem?ily\ *' Finally I give and bequeath my 
soul into my Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for 
all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide 
my son that it may not be said that I have done wrong in 
trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my 
last hour in this strange place." 

ANDERSON. Amen. 

THE UNCLES AND AUNTS. Amen. 

RICHARD. My m.other does not say Amen. 

MRS DUDGEON [rising, unable to give up her property 
without a struggle^ Mr Hawkins: is that a proper will? 
Remember, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by 
yourself, leaving all to me. 

HAWKINS. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded 
will, Mrs Dudgeon; though \_turning politely to Richard'] it 
contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his 
property. 

ANDERSON [interpositig before Mrs Dudgeo?i can retort] 
That is not what you are asked, Mr Hawkins. Is it a 
legal will? 

HAWKINS. The courts will sustain it against the other. 

ANDERSON. But why, if the other is more lawfully 
worded? 

HAWKINS. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim 
of a man — and that man the eldest son — against any 
woman, if they can. I warned you, Mrs Dudgeon, when 
you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a wise 
will, and that though you might make him sign it, he 
would never be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldnt 
take advice; and now Mr Richard is cock of the walk. 
\He takes his hat from the floor ; rises ; and begins pocketing 
his papers and spectacles] . 

This is the signal for the breaking- up of the party. 



28 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

Anderson take^ his hat from the rack and joins Uncle William 
at the fire. Uncle Titus fetches Judith her things from the 
rack. The three on the sofa rise and chat with Hawkins. 
Mrs Dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house, stands 
erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting 
it, as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, 
as proofs of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and 
of her own wormhke insignificance. For at this time, remem- 
ber, Mary Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and 
her Vindication of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years 
off, Mrs Dudgeon is rescued from her apathy by Essie, who 
comes back with the jug full of water. She is taking it to 
Richard when Mrs Dudgeon stops her. 

MRS DUDGEON \threatening her~\ Where have you been? 
[Essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot^ How dare you 
go out by yourself after the orders I gave you ? 

ESSIE. He asked for a drink — \she stops, her tongue 
cleaving to her palate with terror^ 

JUDITH \with gentler severity^ Who asked for a drink? 
[Essie, speechless, points to Richard\ 

RICHARD. What! I! 

JUDITH [shocked^ Oh Essie, Essie! 

RICHARD. I believe I did. \He takes a glass and holds it 
to Essie to be filled. Her hand shake s\ What! afraid of me? 

ESSIE [quickly^ No. I — [She pours out the water^. 

RICHARD [tasting it] Ah, youve been up the street to the 
market gate spring to get that. [He takes a draught]. 
Delicious! Thank you. [Unfortunately, at this moment he 
chances to catch sight of Judith* s face, which expresses the 
most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for Essie, 
who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking 
expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass ; deliber- 
ately winds his arm round Essie* s shoulders; and brings her 
into the middle of the company. Mrs Dudgeon being in Essie'* s 
way as they corns past the table, he says] By your leave. 



Act 1 The DeviFs Disciple 29 

mother [a;: J compels her to make way for them\ What do 
they call you? Bessie? 

ESSIE. Essie. 

RICHARD. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie? 

ESSIE [greatly disappointed that he, of all people, should 
begin at her in this zvay'] Yes. [She looks doubtfully at 
Judith\ I think so. I mean I — I hope so. 

RICHARD. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called 
the devil? 

ANDERSON \revolted^ Shame on you, sir, with a mere 
child — 

RICHARD. By your leave. Minister: I do not interfere 
with your sermons: do not you interrupt mine. [To Essie'\ 
Do you know what they call me, Essie? 

ESSIE. Dick. 

RICHARD [amused: patting her on the shoulder'^ Yes, 
Dick; but something else too. They call me the Devil's 
Disciple. 

ESSIE. Why do you let them? 

RICHARD [seriously^ Because it's true. I was brought up 
in the other service; but I knew from the first that the 
Devil was my natural master and captain and friend. I 
saw that he was in the right, and that the world cringed to 
his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to him; 
and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit 
broken in this house of children's tears. I promised him 
my soul, and swore an oath that I would stand up for him 
in this world and stand by him in the next. [Sole?nnly^ 
That promise and that oath made a man of me. From this 
day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it: 
this heajrth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over 
it i^n_th^ dark evenings and be afraid. Now [turning forcibly 
on the rest^ which of you good men will take this child and 
rescue her from the house of the devil? 

JUDITH [coining to Essie and throzving a protecting arm 
about her^ 1 will. You should be buriit alive. 



30 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

ESSIE. But I dont want to. [^Sbe shrinks back, leaving 
Richard and Judith face to face~\ . 

RICHARD [/<? Judith'^ Actually doesnt want to, most 
virtuous lady! 

UNCLE TITUS. Havc a care, Richard Dudgeon. The 
law — 

RICHARD \turning threateningly on hini\ Have a care, 
you. In an hour from this there will be no law here but 
martial law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my 
way here: before noon Major Swindon's gallows for rebels 
will be up in the market place. 

ANDERSON \calmlj\ What have w e to fear from that, sir? 

RICHARD. More than you think. He hanged the wrong 
man at Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respect- 
able, because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his 
next example will be the best man in the town to whom 
he can bring home a rebellious word. Well, we're all 
rebels; and you know it. 

ALL THE MEN ^xcept Anderso?i\ No, no, no! 

RICHARD. Yes, you are. You havnt damned King 
George up hill and down dale as I have; but youve prayed 
for his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted 
the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of 
pistols. They maynt hang me, perhaps; because the moral 
effect of the Devil's Disciple dancing on nothing wouldnt 
help them. But a Minister! \_Judithy dismayed, clings to 
Andersoti] or a lawyer! \_Hawkins smiles like a man able to 
take care of himself \ or an upright horsedealer ! [ Uncle Titus 
snarls at him in rage and terror] or a reformed drunkard ! 
[Uncle William y utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with 
fear] eh? Would that shew that King George meant business 
—ha? 

ANDERSON \_perfectly self-possessed] Come, my dear: he is 
only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. \^He takes 
her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow 
him, except Essie, who remains near Richard]. 



Act I The Devirs Disciple 31 

RICHARD [boisterously ilerisive] Now then: how many of 
you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the 
devil's house; and make a fight for freedom? [They scramble 
out, Christy among them, hustling one another in their hasted 
Ha ha! Long live the devil! \To Mrs Dudgeon, who is 
following them] What, mother! Are you off too? 

MRS DUDGEON [deadly pa k, with her hand on her heart as 
if she had received a deathblow] My curse on you! My 
dying curse! [She goes out]. 

RICHARD [calling after her] It will bring me luck. Ha 
ha ha! 

ESSIE [anxiously] Maynt I stay? 

RICHARD [turjiing to her] What! Have they forgotten to 
save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? 
Oh yes: you may stay. [He turns excitedly away again and 
shakes his fist after them. His left fist, also ckfiched, hangs 
down, Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. 
He starts and looks at it]. Tears! The devil's baptism! 
[She falls on her kfiees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to 
raise her, saying] Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if 
you like. 



ACT II 

Minister Anderson'' s house is in the main street of Webster- 
bridge ^ not far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth 
century New Englander, it is much grander than the plain 
farmhouse of the Dudgeons ; but it is so plain itself that a 
modern house agent would let both at about the same rent. 
The chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace ^ 
with boiler y toaster hanging on the barSy movable iron griddle 
socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, 
on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The 
door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, 
fingerplates nor handles : it is made of plain boards, and fastens 
with a latch. The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle 
colored cover of American cloth, chapped at the corners by 
draping. The tea service on it consists of two thick cups and 
saucers of the plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, 
each large enough to contain nearly a quart, on a black 
japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a wooden 
trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound 
block of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing the fire 
from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not 
for ornament ; and the minister"* s house coat hangs on a peg 
from its door, shewing that he is out ; for when he is in, it is 
his best coat that hangs there. His big riding boots stand 
beside the press, evidently in their usual place, and rather 
froud of themselves. In fact, the evolution of the minister"* s 
kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate 
apartments has not yet taken place ; and so, from the point of 
view of our pampered period, he is no better off than the 
Dudgeons, 

32 



Act II The Devirs Disciple 33 

But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs 
Anderson is a pleasanterperson to live with than Mrs Dudgeon. 
To which Mrs Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that 
Mrs Anderson has no children to look after ; no poultry, pigs 
nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent 
on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is 
a tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the 
minister'' s house as it is hard at the farm. This is true; but to 
explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs 
Anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has 
certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and visible signs 
of her superior social pretensions are, a drugget on the floor, a 
plaster ceiling between the timbers, and chairs which, though 
not upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are 
represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, 
a copperplate of RaphaeP s St Paul preaching at Athens, a 
rococo presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple 
of miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their 
mouths, and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty 
feature of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its 
whole width, with little red curtains running on a rod half 
way up it to serve as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of 
the seats, standing near the press, has a railed back and is 
long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole, 
it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has 
ended in struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr 
Philip Webb and his disciples in domestic architecture, though 
no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago. 

The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for 
the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the win- 
dow in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, 
windless downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the 
quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthen- 
ware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. Her self- 
conscious airs of the morning are gone : she is anxious and 
frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. 



34 Three Plays for Puritans Act il 

The first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying home 
through the rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very 
far removed from a sob, and turns to the door. Anderson 
comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak. 

JUDITH ^running to him\ Oh, here you are at last, at last! 
\She attempts to embrace him~\ . 

ANDERSON ^keeping her off'~\ Take care, my love: I'm wet. 
Wait till I get my cloak off. \^He places a chair with its back 
to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from 
his hat and puts it on the fender ; and at last turns with his 
hands outstretched to Judith~\ . Now ! \_She fiies into his 
arms~\ . I am not late, am I? The town clock struck the 
quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock 
is always fast. 

JUDITH. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad 
youre back. 

ANDERSON \_taking her more closely in his arms~\ Anxious, 
my dear? 

JUDITH. A little. 

ANDERSON. Why, youvc been crying. 

JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. 
[^ bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror 
and retreats to the long seat, listening.'^ Whats that? 

ANDERSON \_following her tenderly to the seat and making 
her sit down with him'\ Only King George, my dear. He's 
returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting 
ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers 
dont ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want 
anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the 
whole town. 

JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger? 

ANDERSON. Not the least in the world. 

JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you 
believe it. 

ANDERSON. My dear: in this world there is always dan- 
ger for those who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 35 

house will catch fire in the night; but we shant sleep any 
the less soundly for that. 

JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and youre 
quite right. Oh, quite right: I know it. But — I suppose 
I'm not brave: thats all. My heart shrinks every time I 
think of the soldiers. 

ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the 
worse for costing a little pain. 

JUDITH. Yes, I suppose so. \_Embracing him again~\ Oh 
how brave you are, my dear! [^IVith tears i?i her eyes'] 
Well, I'll be brave too: you shant be ashamed of your 
wife. 

ANDERSON. Thats right. Now you make me happy. 
Well, well! [He rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his 
shoes] . I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; 
but he wasnt in. 

JUDITH [rising in consternation] You called on that man! 

ANDERSON [reassuring her] Oh, nothing happened, dearie. 
He was out. 

JUDITH [almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal 
humiliation to her] But why did you go there? 

ANDERSON [gravely] Well, it is all the talk that Major 
Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown — make 
an example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. He 
pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there; 
and it is the general belief that he will pounce on Richard 
as the worst here. 

JUDITH. But Richard said — 

ANDERSON [goodhumoredly cuttiugher short] Pooh! Richard 
said! He said what he thought would frighten you and 
frighten me, my dear. He said what perhaps (God forgive 
him!) he would like to believe. It's a terrible thing to 
think of what death must mean for a man like that. I felt 
that I must warn him. I left a message for him. 

JUDITH [querulously] What message? 

ANDERSON. Only that I should be glad to see him for a 



3^ Three Plays for Puritans Act ii 

moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if 
he would look in here when he was passing he would be 
welcome. 

JUDITH [^aghast] You asked that man to come here! 

ANDERSON. I did. 

JUDITH [sinking on the seat and clasping her hands\ I 
hope he wont come! Oh, I pray that he may not come! 

ANDERSON. Why? Dont you want him to be warned.? 

JUDITH. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it 
wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain.? I do hate him. 
I cant get him out of my mind: I know he will bring harm 
with him. He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted 
his mother. 

ANDERSON \_quaintlj\ Well, dear, let's forgive him; and 
then it wont matter. 

JUDITH. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; but — 

ANDERSON \_going over to her with humorous tenderness~\ 
Come, dear, youre not so wicked as you think. The worst 
sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to 
be indiiFerent to them: thats the essence of inhumanity. 
After all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, youll be 
surprised to find how like hate is to love. [She starts, 
strangely touched — even appalled. He is amused at her~\. 
Yes: I'm quite in earnest. Think of how some of our 
married friends worry one another, tax one another, are 
jealous of one another, cant bear to let one another out of 
sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than 
lovers. Think of those very same people with their ene- 
mies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be 
independent of one another, careful of how they speak of 
one another — pooh! havent you often thought that if they 
only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies than 
to their own husbands and wives.? Come: depend on it, my 
dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, 
if you only knew it. Eh? 

JUDITH. Oh, dont say that: dont say that, Tony, even 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 37 

in jest. You dont know what a horrible feeling it gives 
me. 

ANDERSON [laughing'\ Well, well: never mind, pet. 
He's a bad man; and you hate him as he deserves. And 
youre going to make the tea, arnt you? 

JUDITH [remorsefully^ Oh yes, I forgot. Ive been 
keeping you waiting all this time. \^She goes to the fire and 
puts 071 the kettle^ . 

ANDERSON [gowg to the press a?id taking his coat ojff"^ 
Have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? 

JUDITH. Yes, dear. [She goes to the tabky and sets about 
putting the tea into the teapot from the caddj\ . 

ANDERSON [as he changes his coat for the older one hang- 
ing on the press y and replaces it by the one he has just taken 
off'\ Did anyone call when I was out? 

JUDITH. No, only — \^Someone knocks at the door. With 
a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to 
the further end of the table zuith the tea caddy and spoon in 
her hands y exclaiming^ Who's that? 

ANDERSON \going to her and patting her encouragingly on 
the shoulder] All right, pet, all right. He wont eat you, 
whoever he is. [She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself 
cry. He goes to the door and opens it. Richard is there, 
without overcoat or cloak] . You might have raised the latch 
and come in, Mr Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much 
ceremony with us. [Hospitably^ Come in. [Richard comes 
in carelessly and stands at the table, looking round the room 
with a slight pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on 
the wall. Judith keeps her eyes en the tea caddy] . Is it 
still raining? [He shuts the door'] . 

RICHARD. Raining like the very [his eye catches Judith* s 
as she looks quickly and haughtily up] — I beg your pardon; 
but [shewing that his coat is wet'\ you see — ! 

ANDERSON. Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the 
fire a while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith: 
put in another spoonful of tea for Mr Dudgeon. 



38 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

RICHARD [eyeing him cynically^ The magic of property. 
Pastor! Are even you civil to me now that I have suc- 
ceeded to my father's estate? 

Judith throws down the spoon indignantly. 

ANDERSON \^quite unruffledy and helping Richard off with 
his eoat.'j I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, 
you cannot have so bad an opinion of it. Sit down, [ff^ith 
the coat in his handy he points to the railed seat. Richard y in 
his shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment; 
then, with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the 
better of him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson pushes 
his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and 
hangs Richard^ s coat on the back in its place"]. 

RICHARD. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You 
left word you had something important to tell me. 

ANDERSON. I have a warning which it is mv duty to give 
you. 

RICHARD \juickly rising] You want to preach to me. 
Excuse me: 1 prefer a walk in the rain [he makes for his 
coat] . 

ANDERSON [stopping him] Dont be alarmed, sir; I am no 
great preacher. You are quite safe. [Richard smiles in spite 
of himself. His glance softens : he even makes a gesture of 
excuse. Anderson y seeing that he has tamed himy now 
addresses him earnestly]. Mr Dudgeon: you are in danger 
in this town. 

RICHARD. What danger? 

ANDERSON. Your unclc's danger. Major Swindon's 
gallows. 

RICHARD. It is you who are in danger. I warned 
you — 

ANDERSON [interrupting him goodhumoredly but authorita- 
tively] Yes, yes, Mr Dudgeon; but they do not think so 
in the town. And even if I were in danger, I have duties 
here which I must not forsake. But you are a free man. 
Why should you run any risk? 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 39 

RICHARD. Do you think 1 should be any great loss. 
Minister? 

ANDERSON. I think that a man's life is worth saving, 
whoever it belongs to. \_Richard makes him an ironical bow. 
Anderson returns the bozu humorously] . Come: youll have a 
cup of tea, to prevent you catching cold? 

RICHARD. I observe that Mrs Anderson is not quite so 
pressing as you are. Pastor. 

JUDITH [almost stifled with resentment, which she has been 
expecting her husband to share and express for her at every 
insult of Rich ard"* s] You are welcome for my husband's 
sake. \She brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on 
the hob], 

RICHARD. I know I am not welcome for my own, 
madam. [He rises'] . But I think I will not break bread 
here. Minister. 

ANDERSON [^cheerily] Give me a good reason for that. 

RICHARD. Because there is something in you that I 
respect, and that makes me desire to have you for my 
enemy. 

ANDERSON. Thats well said. On those terms, sir, I will 
accept your enmity or any man's. Judith: Mr Dudgeon 
will stay to tea. Sit down: it will take a few minutes to 
draw by the fire. [^Richard glances at him with a troublea 
face; then sits down with his head benty to hide a convulsive 
swelling of his throat]. I was just saying to my wife, 
Mr Dudgeon, that enmity — \She grasps his hand and looks 
imploringly at him, doing both with an intensity that checks 
him at once] . Well, well, I mustnt tell you, I see; but it 
was nothing that need leave us worse friend — enemies, I 
mean. Judith is a great enemy of yours. 

RICHARD. If all my enemies were like Mrs Anderson, I 
should be the best Christian in America. 

ANDERSON [gratified, patting her hand] You hear that, 
Judith? Mr Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment. 

The latch is lifted from without. 



40 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

JUDITH [starting] Who is that? 

Christy comes in. 

CHRISTY [stopping and staring at Richard] Oh, are you 
here? 

RICHARD. Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs Anderson doesnt 
want the whole family to tea at once. 

CHRISTY [coming further in] Mother's very ill. 

RICHARD. Well, does she want to see me? 

CHRISTY. No. 

RICHARD. I thought not. 

CHRISTY. She wants to see the minister — at once. 

JUDITH [to Anderson] Oh, not before youve had some tea. 

ANDERSON. I shall cnjoy it more when I come back, 
dear. [He is about to take up his cloak]. 

CHRISTY. The rain's over. 

ANDERSON [dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from 
the fender] Where is your mother, Christy? 

CHRISTY. At Uncle Titus's. 

ANDERSON. Have you fetched the doctor? 

CHRISTY. No: she didnt tell me to. 

ANDERSON. Go on there at once: Pll overtake you on 
his doorstep. \Christy turns to go]. Wait a moment. Your 
brother must be anxious to know the particulars. 

RICHARD. Psha! not I: he doesnt know; and I dont care. 
[Violently\ Be off, you oaf. [Christy runs out. Richard 
addsy a little shamefacedly] We shall know soon enough. 

ANDERSON. Well, pcrhaps you will let me bring you the 
news myself. Judith: will you give Mr Dudgeon his tea. 
and keep him here until I return. 

JUDITH [white and trembling\ Must I — 

ANDERSON [taking her hands and interrupting her to cover 
her agitation] My dear: I can depend on you? 

JUDITH [with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust] 
Yes. 

ANDERSON [pressing her hand against his cheek] You will 
not mind two old people like us, Mr Dudgeon. [Going] 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 4^ 

I shall not say good evening: you will be here when I come 
back. '[He goes out] . 

They watch him pass the window ^ and then look at each 
other dumbly, quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver 
of her lips, is the first to pull himself together. 

RICHARD. Mrs Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the 
nature of your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude 
on you. Good evening. \_Again he starts for the fireplace 
to get his coat~] . 

JUDITH [getting between him and the coat] No, no. Dont 
go: please dont go. 

RICHARD [roughly'] Why? You dont want me here. 

JUDITH. Yes, I — [Wringing her hands in despair] Oh, 
if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me. 

RICHARD [indignantly] Torment! What right have you 
to say that.^ Do you expect me to stay after that? 

JUDITH. I want you to stay; but [suddenly raging at him 
like an angry child] it is not because I like you. 

RICHARD. Indeed! 

JUDITH. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me 
about that. I hate and dread you; and my husband knows 
it. If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe 
that I disobeyed him and drove you away. 

RICHARD [ironically] Whereas, of course, you have really 
been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only 
v/ant to go away out of mere contrariness, eh? 

Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts 
into tears. 

RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Dont do that. 
[Putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound] He wrung 
my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a 
woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like 
himself? \She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, 
looking at him with a scared curiosity]. There: thats right. 
[Sympathetically] Youre better now, arnt you? [He puts 
his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises 



42 Three Plays for Puritans Act n 

haughtily y arid stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into 
his usual sardonic tone"] . Ah, thats better. You are your- 
self again: so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like a 
quiet respectable couple, and, wait for your husband's 
return? 

JUDITH [rather ashamed of herself] If you please. I — I 
am sorry to have been so foolish. [^She stoops to take up the 
plate of toast from the fender'^. 

RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am — what 
I am. Allow me. [^He takes the plate from her and goes 
with it to the table'\ . 

JUDITH y following with the teapot'^ Will you sit down? 
\He sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There 
is a plate and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; 
but Judith stays at the opposite end of the table , next the 
fire, and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards 
her'^ . Do you take sugar. 

RICHARD. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you 
some toast. [He puts some on the second plate, and hands it 
to her, with the knife. The action shews quietly hozv well he 
knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far 
from him as possible^ . 

JUDITH \consciously\ Thanks. \She gives him his tea'\ . 
Wont you help yourself? 

RICHARD. Thanks. \He puts a piece of toast on his own 
plate ; and she pours out tea for her self '\ . 

JUDITH \ob serving that he tastes nothing\ Dont you like 
it? You are not eating anything? 

RICHARD. Neither are you. 

JUDITH \nervously\ I never care much for my tea. 
Please dont mind me. 

RICHARD \looking dreamily round~\ I am thinking. It is 
all so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this 
home: I think I have never been more at rest in my life 
than at this moment; and yet I know quite well I could 
never live here. It's not in my nature, I suppose, to be 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 43 

domesticated. But it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. 
\_He muses a moment, and then laughs softly^ . 

JUDITH \_^uuk/y'] Why do you laugh? 

RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in 
here now, he would take us for man and wife. 

JUDITH \_taking offence'\ You mean, I suppose, that you 
are more my age than he is. 

RICHARD \s taring at this unexpected turn] I never thought 
of such a thing. [Sardonic again^. I see there is another 
side to domestic joy. 

JUDITH [angri/yl^ I would rather have a husband whom 
everybody respects than — than — 

RICHARD. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; 
but I daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just 
as your hate helps me to be a bad one. 

JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He 
has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save 
you. Can you not forgive him for being so much better 
than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting your- 
self in his place? 

RICHARD. Did I? 

JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came 
in they would take us for man and — [She stops, terror- 
stricken, as a squad of soldiers tramps past the zvindow~\ . 
The English soldiers! Oh, what do they — 

RICHARD [listening^ Sh! 

A VOICE [outside'] Halt! Four outside: two in with me. 

Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes 
at Richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking 
his tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an 
English sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who 
post themselves at the door. He comes promptly to the table 
between them. 

THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! 
Anthony Anderson: I arrest you in King George's name as 
a rebel. 



44 Three Plays for Puritans Act li 

JUDITH \j>ointing at Richard^ But that is not — \He looks 
up quickly at her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth 
hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and 
stands staring affrightedlj\ . 

THE SERGEANT. CoiTie, parson: put your coat on and 
come along. 

RICHARD. Yes: I'll come. \He rises and takes a step 
towards his own coat ; then recollects himself and, with his 
back to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room 
without turning his head until he sees Anderson* s black coat 
hanging up on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it 
down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson 
tickles him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and 
then smiles slyly at Judith, whose white face shews him that 
what she is painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of 
the situation but its horror. He turns to the sergeant, who 
is approaching him with a pair of handcuffs hidden behind 
him, and says lightly\ Did you ever arrest a man of my 
cloth before. Sergeant? 

THE SERGEANT \instinctively respectful, half to the black 
coat, half to Richard^ s good breeding'] Well, no sir. At 
least, only an army chaplain. [^Shewing the handcuffs]. I'm 
sorry, sir; but duty — 

RICHARD. Just so. Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of 
them: thank you kindly for the apology. \^He holds out his 
hands]. 

SERGEANT [not availing himself of the offer] One gentle- 
man to another, sir. Wouldnt you like to say a word to 
your missis, sir, before you go? 

RICHARD [smiling] Oh, we shall meet again before — 
eh? [meaning ** before you hang me**]. 

SERGEANT [loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness] Oh, of 
course, of course. No call for the lady to distress herself 
Still — [in a lower voice, intended for Richard alone] your 
last chance, sir. 



Act II The Devirs Disciple 45 

They look at one another significantly for a moment. Then 
Richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith, 

RICHARD \very distinctly] My love. \^She looks at him^ 
pitiably pale y and tries to answer y but cannot — tries also to 
come to himy but cannot trust herself to stand without the 
support of the table] . This gallant gentleman is good enough 
to allow us a moment of leavetaking. [ The sergeant retires 
delicately and joins his men near the door] . He is trying to 
spare you the truth; but you had better know it. Are you 
listening to me? \_She signifies assent^. Do you understand 
that I am going to my death? [^She signifies that she under- 
stands]. Remember, you must find our friend who was 
with us just now. Do you understand? \^She signifies yes^. 
See that you get him safely out of harm's way. Dont for 
your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out, 
tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and 
they would not spare me. And tell him that I am steadfast 
in my religion as he is in his, and that he may depend on 
me to the death. [He turns to gOy and meets the eye of the 
sergeant y who looks a little suspicious. He considers a moment y 
and theny turning roguishly to Judith with something of a 
smile hreaking through his earnestness, says'\ And now, my 
dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love 
me like a wife unless you give one kiss before I go. 

He approaches her and holds out his arms. She q-uits the 
table and almost falls into them. 

JUDITH [jhe words choking her"] I ought to — it's mur- 
der — 

RICHARD. No: only a kiss [softly to her'] for his sake, 

JUDITH. I cant. You must — 

RICHARD [folding her in his arms with an impulse of com- 
passion for her distress] My poor girl! 

Judith y with a sudden effort y throws her arms round him; 
kisses him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the 
ground as if the kiss had killed her. 



46 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

RICHARD [_going quickly to the serge ant'\ Now, Sergeant: 
quick, before she comes to. The handcuffs. \He puts out 
his hands'^, 

SERGEANT [pocketittg them] Never mind, sir: I'll trust 
you. Youre a game one. You ought to a bin a soldier, 
sir. Between them two, please. [The soldiers place them- 
selves one before Richard and one behind him. The sergeant 
opens the door]. 

RICHARD [taking a last look round him] Goodbye, wife: 
goodbye, home. Muffle the drums, and quick march! 

The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They 
file out auickly. ^ ^ >l<;fi:j«^5j<^:j«ji{>li 
* When Anderson returns from Mrs Dudgeon's he is aston- 
ished to find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness 
except for the glow from the fire ; for one of the candles has 
burnt outy and the other is at its last flicker. 

ANDERSON. Why, what on earth — ? [Calling] Judith, 
Judith! [He listens: there is no answer]. Hm! [He goes 
to the cuphoard; takes a candle from the drawer; lights it at 
the flicker of the expiring one on the table; and looks wonder- 
ingly at the untasted meal by its light. Then he sticks it in 
the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much 
puzzled. This action causes him to look at the floor for the 
first time; and there he sees Judith lying motionless with her 
eyes closed. He runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her 
head]. Judith. 

JUDITH [waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep 
of exhaustion after suffering] Yes. Did you call? Whats 
the matter? 

ANDERSON. Ivc just comc in and found you lying here 
with the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. 
What has happened? 

JUDITH [still astray] I dont know. Have I been asleep? 
I suppose — [She stops blankly]. I dont know. 

ANDERSON [groaning] Heaven forgive me, I left you alone 
with that scoundrel. [Judith remembers. With an agonized 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 47 

cryy she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as 
he rises with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms'\. My 
poor pet! 

JUDITH \^ frantically cliiiging to him\ What shall I do? 
Oh my God, what shall I do? 

ANDERSON. NevcF mind, never mind, my dearest dear: 
it was my fault. Come: youre safe now; and youre not 
hurt, are you? \He takes his arms from her to see whether 
she can stand\ There: thats right, thats right. If only 
you are not hurt, nothing else matters. 

JUDITH. No, no, no: I'm not hurt. 

ANDERSON. Thank Heaven for that! Come now: \lead- 
ing her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him'\ 
sit down and rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. 
Or [misunderstanding her distress'] you shall not tell me at 
all if it worries you. There, there! [^Cheerfully'] I'll make 
you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. [He goes to 
the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl]. 

JUDITH [in a strained tone] Tony. 

ANDERSON. Ycs, dear? 

JUDITH. Do you think we are only in a dream now? 

ANDERSON [glancing round at her for a moment with a 
pang of anxiety y though he goes on steadily and cheerfully 
putting fresh tea into the pot] Perhaps so, pet. But you may 
as well dream a cup of tea when youre about it. 

JUDITH. Oh stop^ stop. You dont know — [Distracted, 
she buries her face in her knotted hands] . 

ANDERSON [breaking down and coming to her] My dear, 
what is it? I cant bear it any longer: you must tell me. 
It was all my fault: I was mad to trust him. 

JUDITH. No: dont say that. You mustnt say that. He 
— oh no, no: I cant. Tony: dont speak to me. Take 
my hands — both my hands. [He takes jhemy wondering]. 
Make me think of you, not of him. There's danger, fright- 
ful danger; but it is your danger; and I cant keep thinking 
of it: I cant, I cant: my mind goes back to his danger. He 



48 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

must be saved — no: you must be saved: you, you, you. 
[She springs up as if to do something or go somewhere, 
exclaiming\ Oh, Heaven help me! 

ANDERSON [keeping his seat and holding her hands with 
resolute composure^ Calmly, calmly, my pet. Youre quite 
distracted. 

JUDITH. I may well be. I dont know what to do. I 
dont know what to do. \^Tearing her hands awaj\, I must 
save him. [^Anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the 
door. It is opened in her face by Essie y who hurries in full of 
anxiety. The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith that it 
brings her to her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she 
demands'] What do you want? 

ESSIE. I was to come to you. 

ANDERSON. Who told you to? 

ESSIE [staring at him, as if his presence astonished her'\ 
Are you here? 

JUDITH. Of course. Dont be foolish, child. 

ANDERSON. Gently, dearest: youll frighten her. [Going 
between them]. Come here, Essie. [She comes to him]. 
Who sent you? 

ESSIE. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to 
come here at once and do whatever Mrs Anderson told 
me. 

ANDERSON [enlightened] A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! 
They have arrested Richard. [Judith makes a gesture of 
despair]. 

ESSIE. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the 
soldier said you had been taken. 

ANDERSON. I! [Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an 
explanation]. 

JUDITH [coaxingly] All right, dear: I understand. [To 
Essie] Thank you, Essie, for coming; but I dont need you 
now. You may go home. 

ESSIE [suspicious] Are you sure Dick has not been touched? 
Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister. 



Act II The Devirs Disciple 49 

[Jnxious/y] Mrs Anderson: do you think it can have been 
that? 

ANDERSON. Tcll hcr the truth if it is so, Judith. She 
will learn it from the first neighbor she meets in the street. 
[^Judith turns away and covers her eyes with her hands\ 

ESSIE \wailing\ But what will they do to him? Oh, 
what will they do to him? Will they hang him? [Judith 
shudders convulsively , and throws herself into the chair in 
which Richard sat at the tea table']. 

ANDERSON [patting Essie* s shoulder and trying to comfort 
her] I hope not. I hope not. Perhaps if youre very quiet 
and patient, we may be able to lielp him in some way. 

ESSIE. Yes — help him — yes, yes, yes. Pll be good. 

ANDERSON. I must go to him at once, Judith. 

JUDITH [springing up] Oh no. You must go away — far 
away, to some place of safety. 

ANDERSON. Pooh ! 

JUDITH [passionately] Do you want to kill me? Do you 
think I can bear to live for days and days with every knock 
at the door — every footstep — giving me a spasm of terror? 
to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, 
listening for them to come and arrest you? 

ANDERSON. Do you think it would be better to know 
that I had run away from my post at the first sign of danger? 

JUDITH [bitterly] Oh, you wont go. I know it. Youll 
stay; and I shall go mad. 

ANDERSON. My dear, your duty — 

JUDITH [fiercely] What do I care about my duty? 

ANDERSON [shockcd] Judith! 

JUDITH, I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. 
My duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to 
his fate [Essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair 
at the fire y sobbing silently] . My instinct is the same as hers 
— to save him above all things, though it would be so much 
better for him to die! so much greater! But I know you 
will take your own way as he took it. I have no power. 



50 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

![^Sbe sits down sullenly on the railed seai\. Pm only a woman: 
I can do nothing but sit here and suffer. Only, tell hiA I 
tried to save you — that I did my best to save you. 

ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking 
more of his own danger than of mine. 

JUDITH. Stop; or I shall hate you. 

ANDERSON \remonstrating\ Come, come, come! How 
am I to leave you if you talk like this! You are quite out 
of your senses. \He turns to Essie'\ Essie. 

ESSIE \eagerly rising and drying her eyes'] Yes? 

ANDERSON. Just Wait outsidc a moment, like a good girl: 
Mrs Anderson is not well. [Essie looks doubtful\ Never 
fear: Til come to you presently; and I'll go to Dick. 

ESSIE. You are sure you will go to him? \Whispering'\, 
You wont let her prevent you? 

ANDERSON \smili7ig\ No, no: it's all right. All right. 
\She goes\. Thats a good girl. \He closes the door, and 
returns to Judith']. 

JUDITH [seated — rigid] You are going to your death. 

ANDERSON [guaintly] Then I shall go in my best coat, 
dear. [He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat]. 
Where — ? [He stares at the empty nail for a moment; then 
looks quickly round to the fire ; strides across to it; and lifts 
Richard^ s coat]. Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone 
in my best coat. 

JUDITH [///// motionless] Yes. 

ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake? 

JUDITH. Yes: they made a mistake. 

ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he 
was too upset, I suppose. 

JUDITH. Yes: he might have told them. So might I. 

ANDERSON. Well, it's all very puzzling — almost funny. 
It's curious how these little things strike us even in the 
most — [He breaks off and begins putting on Richard^ s coat]. 
I'd better take him his own coat. I know what he'll say — 



Act II The Devil's Disciple 51 

\tmitattng Richard'' s sardonic manner'] ''Anxious about my 
sou]. Pastor, and also about your best coat." Eh? 

JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. 
[^racantly] It doesnt matter; I shall never see either of you 
again. 

ANDERSON [rallying her"] Oh pooh, pooh, pooh ! [He sits 
down beside her']. Is this how you keep your promise that 
I shant be ashamed of my brave wife.'' 

JUDITH. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my 
promises to him: why should I keep my promises to you? 

ANDERSON. Dout speak so strangely, my love. It sounds 
insincere to me. \She looks unutterable reproach at him] . 
Yes, dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is 
talking nonsense. Just nonsense. \Her face darkens into 
dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her^ and does not 
look at him again, absorbed in Richard^ s fate. He scans her 
face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives 
it up, making no further effort to conceal his anxiety] . I wish 
I knew what has frightened you so. Was there a struggle? 
Did he fight? 

JUDITH. No. He smiled. 

ANDERSON. Did he realise his danger, do you think? 

JUDITH. He realised yours. 

ANDERSON. Mine! 

JUDITH [monotonously] He said, "See that you get him 
safely out of harm's way." I promised: I cant keep my 
promise. He said, "Dont for your life let him know of 
my danger." Ive told you of it. He said that if you found 
it out, you could not save him — that they will hang him 
and not spare you. 

ANDERSON [rising in generous indignation] And you think 
that I will let a man with that much good in him die like 
a dog, when a few words might make him die like a 
Christian. I'm ashamed of you, Judith. 

JUDITH. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are 



52 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

in yours; and you may depend on him to the death. He 
said so. 

ANDERSON. God forgivc him! What else did he say? 

JUDITH. He said goodbye. 

ANDERSON [fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern^ 
Poor fellow, poor fellow ! You said goodbye to him in all 
kindness and charity, Judith, I hope. 

JUDITH. I kissed him. 

ANDERSON. What! Judith! 

JUDITH. Are you angry? 

ANDERSON. No, no. You were right: you were right. 
Poor fellow, poor fellow! [^Greatly distressed^ To be 
hanged like that at his age! And then did they take him 
away? 

JUDITH Iwearily"^ Then you were here: thats the next 
thing I remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me 
goodbye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint again. I wish I 
could die. 

ANDERSON. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself 
together and be sensible. I am in no danger — not the least 
in the world. 

JUDITH [^solemnly^ You are going to your death, Tony — 
your sure death, if God will let innocent men be murdered. 
They will not let you see him: they will arrest you the 
moment you give your name. It was for you the soldiers 
came. 

ANDERSON [thunderstruck'\ For me!!! [///V fists clinch; 
his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fiesh-^ purses under his 
eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes y 
transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. Still, 
she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes 
are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of Richard^ s stead- 
fastness.'] 

JUDITH. He took your place: he is dying to save you. 
That is why he went in your coat. That is why I kissed 
him. 



Act II The Devil's Disciple S3 

ANDERSON \exploding\ Blood an' owns! [/jT/V voice is 
rough and dominant, his gesture full of hruti energy\. Here! 
Essie, Essie! 

ESSIE [running in"] Yes. 

ANDERSON [impetuously] OfF with you as hard as you can 
run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and 
strongest horse they have \_Judith rises breathless, and stares 
at him incredulously^ — the chestnut mare, if she's fresh — 
without a moment's delay. Go into the stable yard and 
tell the black man there that I'll give him a silver dollar if 
the horse is waiting for me when I come, and that I am 
close on your heels. Away with you. [///V energy sends 
Essie flying from the room. He pounces on his riding boots; 
rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins pulling 
them on^. 

JUDITH \unable to believe such a thing of him'] You are 
not going to him! 

ANDERSON [busy with the boots'] Going to him! What 
good would that do? [Growling to himself as he gets the first 
boot on with a wrench] I'll go to them, so I will. \To Judith 
peremptorily] Get me the pistols: I want them. And 
money, money: I want money — all the money in the house. 
\He stoops over the other boot, grumbling] A great satisfac- 
tion it would be to him to have my company on the gallows. 
[He pulls on the boot]. 

JUDITH. You are deserting him, then? 

ANDERSON. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the 
pistols. [She goes to the press and tahes from it a leather belt 
with two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached 
to it. She throws it on the table. Then she unlocks a drawer 
in the press and takes out a pur:.e. Anderson grabs the belt 
and buckles it on, saying] If they took him for me in my 
coat, perhaps they 11 take me for him in his. [Hitching the 
belt into its place] Do I look like him? 

JUDITH [turning with the purse in her hand] Horribly 
unlike him. 



54 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

ANDERSON [snatching the purse from her and emptying it 
on the tabie~\ Hm! We shall see. 

JUDITH [^sitting down helplessly'] Is it of any use to pray, 
do you think, Tony? 

ANDERSON [countmg the money] Pray! Can we pray 
Swindon's rope off Richard's neck? 

JUDITH. God may soften Major Swindon's heart. 

ANDERSON \_contemptuously — pocketing a handful of money] 
Let him, then. I am not God; and I must go to work 
another way. \_Judith gasps at the blasphemy. Rethrows 
the purse on the table]. Keep that. Ive taken 25 dollars. 

JUDITH. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister? 

ANDERSON. Minister be — faugh! My hat: wheres my 
hat? [//if snatches up hat and cloaks and puts both on in hot 
haste]. Now listen, you. If you can get a word with him 
by pretending youre his wife, tell him to hold his tongue 
until morning: that will give me all the start I need. 

JUDITH [^solemnly] You may depend on him to the death. 

ANDERSON. Yourc a fool, a fool, Judith [for a moment 
checking the torrent of his haste y and speaking with something 
of his old quiet and impressive conviction] You dont know the 
man youre married to. ^ Essie returns. He swoops at her 
at once]. Well: is the horse ready? 

ESSIE [breathless] It will be ready when you come. 

ANDERSON. Good. [//> makes for the door], 

JUDITH [rising and stretching out her arms after him invol- 
untarily] Wont you say goodbye? 

ANDERSON. And wastc another half minutc ! Psha! [He 
rushes out like an avalanche]. 

ESSIE [hurrying to Judith] He has gone to save Richard, 
hasnt he? 

JUDITH. To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. 
He has gone to save himself. Richard must die. 

Essie screams zvith terror and falls on her knees, hiding 
her face. Judith y without heeding her, looks rigidly straight 
in front of her y at the vision of Richard, dying. 



ACT III 

Early next morning the sergeant, at the British head- 
quarters in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty 
panelled waiting room, and invites Judith to enter. She has 
had a bad nighty probably a rather delirious one; for even in 
the reality of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at 
moments when her attention is not strongly held. 

The sergeant coftsiders that her feelings do her credit, and 
is sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine 
figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels 
specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her. 

SERGEANT. You Can havc a quiet word with him here, 
mam. 

JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait.? 

SERGEANT. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in 
the Bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over 
here for the court martial. Dont fret, mum: he slep like a 
child, and has made a rare good breakfast. 

JUDITH \tncredulously'\ He is in good spirits! 

SERGEANT. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to 
see him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off hiin 
at spoil five. He spent it among us like the gentleman he is. 
Duty's duty, mum, of course; but youre among friends 
here. \T'he tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approach- 
ing]. There: I think he's coming. \_Richard comes in, 
without a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. The 
sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shews them the key of 
the room in his hand. They withdraw']. Your good lady, 
sir. 

55 



5^ Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RICHARD [i^oing to her\ What! My wife. My adored 
one. \He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, 
r a fish gallantrf^ . How long do you allow a brokenhearted 
husband for leave-taking. Sergeant? 

SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb 
you til the court sits. 

RICHARD. But it has struck the hour. 

SERGEANT. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General 
Burgoyne's just arrived — Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, 
sir — and he wont have done finding fault with everything 
this side of half past. I know him, sir: I served with him 
in Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir; and 
by your leave I wont waste any more of them. \He goes 
out, locking the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish 
manner and turns to Judith with considerate sincerity] . 

RICHARD. Mrs Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. 
And how are you after last night? I had to leave you before 
you recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look 
after you. Did she understand the message? 

JUDITH [breathless and urgent'] Oh, dont think of me: 
1 havent come here to talk about myself. Are they going 
to — to — [meaning * * to hang you^ 'J ? 

RICHARD [whimsically] At noon, punctually. At least, 
that was when they disposed of Uncle Peter. [She shudders]. 
Is your husband safe? Is he on the wing? 

JUDITH. He is no longer my husband. 

RICHARD [opening his eyes wide] Eh? 

JUDITH. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I 
expected him to come here and save you. I wanted him to 
come here and save you. He ran away instead. 

RICHARD. Well, thats what I meant him to do. What 
good would his staying have done? Theyd only have hanged 
us both. 

JUDITH [with reproachful earnestness] Richard Dudgeon: 
on your honour, what would you have done in his place? 

RICHARD. Exactly what he has done, of course. 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 57 

JUDITH. Oh, why wi]l you not be simple with me — 
honest and straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, 
why did you let them take you last night? 

RICHARD [.g"^/^] Upon my life, Mrs Anderson, I dont 
know. Ive been asking myself that question ever since; and 
I can find no manner of reason for acting as I did. 

JUDITH. You know you did it for his sake, believing he 
was a more worthy man than yourself. 

RICHARD \Jaughing\ Oho! No: thats a very pretty 
reason, I must say; but I'm not so modest as that. No: it 
wasnt for his sake. 

JUDITH [after a pause y during which she looks shamefacedly 
at hirriy blushing painfull j\ Was it for my sake? 

RICHARD \_gallantlf\ Well, you had a hand in it. It 
must have been a little for your sake. You let them take 
me, at all events. 

JUDITH. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself 
that all night? Your death will be at my door. [Impulsivelyy 
she gives him her handy and adds, with intense earnestness^ . 
If I could save you as you saved him, I would do it, no 
matter how cruel the death was. 

RICHARD [holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her 
almost at arms length^ I am very sure I shouldnt let you. 

JUDITH. Dont you see that lean save you? 

RICHARD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh? 

JUDITH [disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it'\ 
Dont [meaning ** Dont jest^']. No: by telling the Court 
who you really are. 

RICHARD [frowning^ No use: they wouldnt spare me; 
and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. They are 
determined to cow us by making an example of somebody 
on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by showing 
that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the 
only force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic 
and make America a nation. 

JUDITH [impatiently'] Oh, what does all that matter? 



58 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RICHARD [laughing^ True: what does it matter? what 
does anything matter? You see, men have these strange 
notions, Mrs Anderson; and women see the folly of them. 

JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through 
them. 

RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers. 

JUDITH \revolted~\ Oh! [Vehemently] Do you realise 
that you are going to kill yourself? 

RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs 
Anderson. Dont be concerned: no woman will lose her 
lover through my death. [Smiling'\ Bless you, nobody cares 
for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead? 

JUDITH. Dead! 

RICHARD. Of heart disease — in the night. Her last word 
to me was her curse: I dont think I could have borne her 
blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my 
account. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have pro- 
vided for her: I made my own will last night. 

JUDITH \jtonily, after a moment' s silejice'\ And I! 

RICHARD \_5urprised\ You? 

JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all? 

RICHARD \gaily and bluntly] Not a scrap. Oh, you 
expressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. 
What happened may have softened you for the moment; 
but believe me, Mrs Anderson, you dont like a bone in my 
skin or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance 
at 12 to-day as I should have been at 12 yesterday. 

JUDITH \her voice trembling] What can I do to shew 
you that you are mistaken. 

RICHARD. Dont trouble. I'll give you credit for liking 
me a little better than you did. All I say is that my death 
will not break your heart. 

JUDITH [almost in a whisper] How do you know? [She 
puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him] . 

RICHARD [amazed — divining the truth] Mrs Anderson !! ! 
[The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 59 

himself y and removes her handsy saving rather coldly] Excuse 
me: they will be here for me presently. It is too late. 

JUDITH. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will 
never kill you when they know how heroically you have 
acted. 

RICHARD [with some scor?i\ Indeed! But if I dont go 
through with it, where will the heroism be? I shall simply 
have tricked them; and theyll hang me for that like a dog. 
Serve me right too! 

JUDITH [wildly] Oh, I believe you want to die. 

RICHARD [obstinately] No I dont. 

JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore 
you — listen. You said just now that you saved him for my 
sake — yes [clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of 
denial] a httle for my sake. Well, save yourself for my 
sake. And I will go with you to the end of the world. 

RICHARD \taking her by the wrists and holding her a little 
way from him, looking steadily at her] Judith. 

JUDITH [breathless — delighted at the name] Yes. 

RICHARD. If I said — to please you — that I did what I 
did ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to 
women. You know how much I have lived with worthless 
men — aye, and worthless women too. Well, they could 
all rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they 
were in love [the word love comes from him with true Puri- 
tan scorn] . That has taught me to set very little store by 
the goodness that only comes out red hot. What I did last 
night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so much for your 
husband, or [ruthlessly] for you [she droops, stricke?i] as I 
do for myself. I had no motive and no interest: all I can 
tell you is that when it came to the point whether I would 
take my neck out of the noose and put another man's into 
it, I could not do it. I dont know why not: I see myself 
as a fool for my pains; but I could not and I cannot. I 
have been brought up standing by the law of my own 
nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. 



6o Three Plays for Puritans Act ill 

[^Sbe has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at 
him] . I should have done the same for any other man in 
the town, or any other man's wife. [^Releasing her] Do 
you understand that? 

JUDITH. Yes: you mean that you do not love me. 

RICHARD [revolted — with fierce contempt] Is that all it 
means to you? 

JUDITH. What more — what worse — can it mean to me? 
[ The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her 
heart]. Oh, one moment more. \She throws herself on 
her knees]. I pray to you — 

RICHARD. Hush! \Calling] Come in. \_The sergeant 
unlocks the door and opens it. The guard is with him] . 

SERGEANT [coming in] Time's up, sir. 

RICHARD. Quite ready. Sergeant. Now, my dear. \_He 
attempts to raise her] . 

JUDITH [clinging to him] Only one thing more — I entreat, 
I implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have 
seen Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you 
asked it. You will ask it. It is my last request: I shall 
never ask you anything again. [She clasps his knee] . I beg 
and pray it of you. 

RICHARD. If I do, will you be silent? 

JUDITH. Yes. 

RICHARD. You will keep faith? 

JUDITH. I will keep — [She breaks down, sobbing] . 

RICHARD [taking her arm to lift her] Just — her other 
arm. Sergeant. 

They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the 
two men. 

Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court 
martial. It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in 
the middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon 
curtains with the royal monogram G. R. In front of the 
chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy 
inkstand, and writing materials on it. Several chairs are 



Act III The Devirs Disciple 6i 

set at the table. The door is at the right hand of the occu- 
pant of the chair of state when it has an occupant : at present 
it is empty. Major Swindon, a pale, sandy haired, very con- 
scientious looking man of about 45, sits at the end of the table 
with his back to the door, writing. He is alone until the 
sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner which 
suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his 
presence felt rather heavily. 

SERGEANT. The General, sir. 

Swindon rises hastily. The general comes in-, the sergeant 
goes out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. 
He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a dis- 
tinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write 
successful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have 
had opportunities of high military distinction. His eyes, large, 
brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remark- 
able feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth would 
suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to 
the making of a first rate general. Just now the eyes are 
angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense. 

BURGOYNE. MajoF Swindon, I presume. 

SWINDON. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. 
^They bow to one another ceremoniously^. I am glad to have 
the support of your presence this morning. It is not par- 
ticularly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a 
minister. 

BURGOYNE \throwing himself into Swindon* s chair'j No, 
sir, it is not. It is making too much of the fellov^ to execute 
him: what more could you have done if he had been a 
member of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir, is 
what these people like: it is the only way in which a man 
can become famous without ability. However, you have 
committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged 
the better. 

SWINDON. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing 
remains to be done except to try him. 



62 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

BURGOYNE \Jooking at him with suppressed anger\ Nothing 
— except to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you 
heard the news from Springtown? 

SWINDON. Nothing special. The latest reports are satis- 
factory . 

BURGOYNE \ristng in amazement'^ Satisfactory, sir! Satis- 
factory ! ! \He stares at him for a mometit, and then adds, 
with grim intensity^ I am glad you take that view of 
them. 

SWINDON [puzzled"] Do I understand that in your 
opinion — 

BURGOYNE. I do not cxprcss my opinion. I never stoop 
to that habit of profane language which unfortunately 
coarsens our profession. If I did, sir, perhaps I should be 
able to express my opinion of the news from Springtown — 
the news which you [^severely] have apparently not heard. 
How soon do you get news from your supports here? — in 
the course of a month, eh? 

SWINDON [turning sulky] I suppose the reports have been 
taken to you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything 
serious? 

BURGOYNE [taking a report from his pocket and holding it 
up] Springtown' s in the hands of the rebels. [He throws 
the report on the table\ 

SWINDON [aghast'\ Since yesterday! 

BURGOYNE. Sincc two o'clock this morning. Perhaps 
we shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow 
morning. Have you thought of that? 

SWINDON [confident ly'\ As to that. General, the British 
soldier will give a good account of himself. 

BURGOYNE [bitterly'\ And therefore, I suppose, sir, the 
British officer need not know his business: the British soldier 
will get him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. In 
future, sir, I must ask you to be a little less generous with 
the blood of your men, and a little more generous with 
your own brains. 



Act III The DeviFs Disciple 6^ 

SWINDON. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intel- 
lectual eminence, sir. I can only do my best, and rely on 
the devotion of my countrymen. 

BURGOYNE \_suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic^ May I 
ask are you writing a melodrama. Major Swindon.'' 

SWINDON \^fiushing\ No, sir. 

BURGOYNE. What a pity! What a pity! \Dropping his 
sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously'^ Do you 
at all realize, sir, that we have nothing standing between 
us and destruction but our own bluff and the sheepishness 
of these colonists? They are men of the same English 
stock as ourselves: six to one of us [repeating it emphatically'j 
six to one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians, 
Brunswickers, German dragoons, and Indians with scalping 
knives. These are the countrymen on whose devotion you 
rely! Suppose the colonists find a leader! Suppose the news 
from Springtown should turn out to mean that they have 
already found a leader! What shall we do then.? Eh? 

SWINDON [^sullenly'\ Our duty, sir, I presume. 

BURGOYNE [again sarcastic — giving him up as a fool\ 
Quite so, quite so. Thank you. Major Swindon, thank 
you. Now youve settled the question, sir — thrown a flood 
of light on the situation. What a comfort to me to feel 
that I have at my side so devoted and able an officer to 
support me in this emergency! I think, sir, it will probably 
relieve both our feehngs if we proceed to hang this dissenter 
without further delay \he strikes the bell^ especially as I 
am debarred by my principles from the customary military 
vent for my feelings. \The sergeant appears^. Bring your 
man in. 

SERGEANT. Yes, sir. 

BURGOYNE. And mention to any officer you may meet 
that the court cannot wait any longer for him. 

SWINDON [keeping his temper with difficulty'] The staff is 
perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your con- 
venience for fully half an hour. Perfectly ready, sir. 



64 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

BURGOYNE \blandly'\ So am I. [Several officers come in 
and take their seats. One of them sits at the end of the table 
furthest from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the 
court y making notes of the proceedings. The uniforms are 
those of the gth, zoth, 2\st, z^th, \1thy ^ydy and 62nd 
British Infantry. One officer is a Major General of the 
Royal Artillery. There are also German officers of the 
Hessian Rifle Sy and of German dragoon and Brunswicker 
regiments'^. Oh, good morning, gentlemen. Sorry to dis- 
turb you, I am sure. Very good of you to spare us a few 
moments. 

SWINDON. Will you preside, sir? 

BURGOYNE \becoming additionally polished, lofty ^ sarcastic 
and urbane now that he is in public~\ No, sir: I feel my own 
deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. If you will 
kindly allow me, I will sit at the feet of Gamaliel. [He 
takes the chair at the end of the table next the door, and 
motions Swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be 
seated before sitting down himself] . 

SWINDON [greatly annoyed~\ As you please, sir. I am only 
trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances. 
[He takes his place in the chair of state~\ . 

Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, 
sits down and begins to read the report with knitted brows and 
careworn looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and Swin- 
don' s uselessness. Richard is brought in. Judith walks beside 
him. Two soldiers precede and two follow him^ with the 
sergeant in command. They cross the room to the wall opposite 
the door ; but when Richard has just passed before the chair of 
state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and 
posts himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly 
at the wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad 
near her. 

BURGOYNE [looking Up and seeing Judith"] Who is that 
woman? 

SERGEANT. Prisoncr's wife, sir. 



Act III The DeviFs Disciple 6^ 

SWINDON [/lervous/yl She begged me to allow her to be 
present; and I thought — 

BURGOYNE \_completing the sentence for him ironically^ You 
thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. 
\_blandly~\ Give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly- 
comfortable. 

The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard. 

JUDITH. Thank you, sir. \_She sits down after an awe- 
stricken curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a 
dignified bend of his head'\ . 

SWINDON \to Richard, sharply~\ Your name, sir.? 

RICHARD [affable, but obstinate~\ Come: you dont mean 
to say that youve brought me here without knowing who 
I am? 

SWINDON. As a matter of form, sir, give your name. 

RICHARD. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony 
Anderson, Presbyterian minister in this town. 

BURGOYNE [interested^ Indeed! Pray, Mr Anderson, 
what do you gentlemen believe? 

RICHARD. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed 
me. I cannot undertake to complete your conversion in 
less than a fortnight. 

SWINDON [snubbing him] We are not here to discuss your 
views. 

BURGOYNE [with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate 
Swindon'^ t stand rebuked. 

SWINDON [embarrassed~)^ Oh, not you, I as — 

BURGOYNE. Dont mention it. [To Richard, very politely~\ 
Any political views, Mr Anderson? 

RICHARD. I understand that that is just what we are here 
to find out. 

SWINDON [severely'] Do you mean to deny that you are 
a rebel? 

RICHARD. I am an American, sir. 

SWINDON. What do you expect me to think of that 
speech, Mr Anderson? 



66 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RICHARD. I never expect a soldier to think, sir. 

Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retorty which 
almost reconciles him to the loss of America. 

SWINDON \whitening with anger'\ I advise you not to be 
insolent, prisoner. 

RICHARD. You cant help yourself, General. When you 
make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a 
disadvantage with him. Why should I be civil to you? I 
may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. 

SWINDON. You have no right to assume that the court 
has made up its mind without a fair trial. And you will 
please not addre?^s me as General. I am Major Swindon. 

RICHARD. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the 
honor of addressing Gentlemanly Johnny. 

Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow 
escape from a guffaw. 

BURGOYNE \with extreme suavity'^ I believe I am Gentle- 
manly Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate friends 
call me General Burgoyne. \_Richard bows with perfect 
politeness']. You will understand, sir, I hope, since you 
seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in spite of 
your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang 
you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity 
and military duty, without any personal ill-feeling. 

RICHARD. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference 
in the world, of course. 

They all smile in spite of themselves; and some of the 
younger officers burst out laughing. 

JUDITH ^er dread and horror deepening at every one of 
these jests and compliments'] How can you.? 

RICHARD. You promised to be silent. 

BURGOYNE [/tf fudithy with studied courtesy] Believe me. 
Madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest 
obligation by taking this very disagreeable business so 
thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman. Sergeant: give 
Mr Anderson a chair. [The sergeant does so. Rich- 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 67 

ard sits down'\. Now, Major Swindon: we are waiting 
for you. 

SWINDON. You are aware, I presume, Mr Anderson, of 
your obligations as a subject of His Majesty King George 
the Third. 

RICHARD. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George 
the Third is about to hang me because I object to Lord 
North's robbing me. 

SWINDON. That is a treasonable speech, sir. 

RICHARD \briefij\ Yes. I meant it to be. 

BURGOYNE \strongly deprecating this line of defence, but 
still polite^ Dont you think, Mr Anderson, that this is 
rather — if you will excuse the word — a vulgar line to take.'' 
Why should you cry out robbery because of a stamp duty 
and a tea duty and so forth.?* After all, it is the essence of 
your position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace. 

RICHARD. It is not the money. General. But to be 
swindled by a pig-headed lunatic like King George — 

SWINDON ^scandalised^ Chut, sir — silence! 

SERGEANT \in Stentorian tones, greatly shocked^ Silence! 

BURGOYNE \unruffied^ Ah, that is another point of view. 
My position does not allow of my going into that, except 
in private. But [shrugging his shoulder s~\ of course, Mr 
Anderson, if you are determined to be hanged [Judith 
finches'] there's nothing more to be said. An unusual 
taste ! however \zvith a final shrug\ — ! 

SWINDON [to Burgoyne] Shall we call witnesses.'' 

RICHARD. What need is there of witnesses? If the 
townspeople here had listened to me, you would have found 
the streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and the people 
in arms to hold the town against you to the last man. But 
you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the 
talking stage; and then it was too late. 

SWINDON [severely] Well, sir, we shall teach you and 
your townspeople a lesson they will not forget. Have you 
anything more to say.? 



68 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RICHARD. I think you might have the decency to treat 
me as a prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead 
of hanging me like a dog. 

BURGOYNE [sympathetically^ Now there, Mr Anderson, 
you talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. 
Have you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army 
of His Majesty King George the Third? If we make you 
up a firing party, what will happen? Half of them will 
miss you: the rest will make a mess of the business and 
leave you to the provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas we can 
hang you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. 
\_Kindly~\ Let me persuade you to be hanged, Mr Anderson? 

JUDITH [sick with horror^ My God! 

RICHARD [to Judith'] Your promise! [to Burgoyne\ 
Thank you. General: that view of the case did not occur 
to me before. To oblige you, I withdraw my objection to 
the rope. Hang me, by all means. 

BURGOYNE [smoothly'\ Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr 
Anderson? 

RICHARD. I shall be at your disposal then. General. 

BURGOYNE [rising\ Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. 
[ They all rise] . 

JUDITH [rushing to the table] Oh, you are not going to 
murder a man like that, without a proper trial — without 
thinking of what you are doing — without — [she cannot find 
words] . 

RICHARD. Is this how you keep your promise? 

JUDITH. If I am not to speak, you must. Defend your- 
self: save yourself: tell them the truth. 

RICHARD [worriedly] I have told them truth enough to 
hang me ten times over. If you say another word you will 
risk other lives; but you will not save mine. 

BURGOYNE. My good lady, our only desire is to save 
unpleasantness. What satisfaction would it give you to have 
a solemn fuss made, with my friend Swindon in a black cap 
and so forth? I am sure we are greatly indebted to the 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 69 

admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shewn by your hus- 
band. 

JUDITH \^throwing the words in his face\ Oh, you are 
mad. Is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if 
only you do It like a gentleman? Is it nothing to you 
whether you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in 
a red coat? \_Despratelj\ You shall not hang him: that 
man is not my husband. 

The officers look at one another y and whisper: some of the 
Germans asking their neighbors to explain what the woman 
has said. Burgoyne^ who has been visibly shaken by Judith' s 
reproachy recovers himself pro?nptly at this new development, 
Richard meanwhile raises his voice above the buzz. 

RICHARD. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to 
this. She will not believe that she cannot save me. Break 
up the court, 

BURGOYNE \Jn a voice so quiet and firm that it restores 
silence at once~^ One moment, Mr Anderson. One moment, 
gentlemen. [//<? resumes his seat. Swindon and the officers 
follozv his example'^ . Let me understand you clearly, 
madam. Do you mean that this gentleman is not your 
husband, or merely — I wish to put this with all dehcacy — 
that you are not his wife? 

JUDITH. I dont know what you mean, I say that he is 
nof my husband — that my husband has escaped. This man 
took his place to save him. Ask anyone in the town — send 
out into the street for the first person you find there, and 
bring him in as a witness. He will tell you that the pris- 
oner is not Anthony Anderson. 

BURGOYNE [quictly, as before^ Sergeant. 

SERGEANT. YcS sir. 

BURGOYNE. Go out into the street and bring in the first 
townsman you see there. 

SERGEANT \niaking for the door] Yes sir. 

BURGOYNE \_as the sergeant passes] The first clean, sober 
townsman you see. 



yo Three Plays for Puritans Act in 

SERGEANT. Ycs sir. ^He goss out]. 

BURGOYNE. Sit down, Mr Anderson— if I may call you 
so for the present. [Richard sits dozun^. Sit down, madam, 
whilst we wait. Give the lady a newspaper. 

RICHARD [indig?iantly\ Shame! 

BURGOYNE [keenly, with a half smile'] If you are not her 
husband, sir, the case is not a serious one — for her. 
\_Richard bites his lip, silenced^. 

JUDITH [to Richard y as she returns to her seat] I could nt 
help it. [He shakes his head. She sits dozun~\. 

BURGOYNE. You wiU understand of course, Mr Ander- 
son, that you must not build on this little incident. We 
are bound to make an example of somebody. 

RICHARD. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use 
in my explaining. 

BURGOYNE. I think we should prefer independent testi- 
mony, if you dont mind. 

The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns 
conducti?ig Christy, who is much scared. 

SERGEANT [giving Burgoyne the packet] Dispatches, sir. 
Delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard 
riding, sir. 

Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes 
absorbed in them. They are so serious as to take his attention 
completely from the court martial. 

THE SERGEANT [to Christy'] Now then. Attention; and 
take your hat off. [He posts himself in charge of Christy, 
who stands on Burgoyne'' s side of the court] . 

RICHARD [in his usual bullying tone to Christy] Dont be 
frightened, you fool: youre only wanted as a witness. 
They re not going to hang you. 

SWINDON. What's your name? 

CHRISTY. Christy. 

RICHARD [impatiently] Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant 
idiot. Give your full name. 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 71 

SWINDON. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt 
the witness. 

RICHARD. Very well. But I warn you youll get nothing 
out of him unless you shake it out of him. He has been 
too well brought up by a pious mother to have any sense 
or manhood left in him. 

BURGOYNE [sprwgi/ig Up and speaking to the sergeant in a 
startling z'oice'j Where is the man who brought these? 

SERGEANT. In the guard-room, sir. 

Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers 
exchanging looks. 

SWINDON [jto Christy~\ Do you know Anthony Anderson, 
the Presbyterian minister? 

CHRISTY. Of course I do [implying that Swindon must be 
an ass not to know //]. 

SWINDON. Is he here? 

CHRISTY \_staring roundly I dont know. 

SWINDON. Do you see him? 

CHRISTY. No. 

SWINDON. You seem to know the prisoner? 

CHRISTY. Do you mean Dick? 

SWINDON. Which is Dick? 

CHRISTY \_pointing to Richard'] Him. 

SWINDON. What is his name? 

CHRISTY. Dick. 

RICHARD. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What 
do they know about Dick? 

CHRISTY. Well, you are Dick, aint you? What am I 
to say? 

SWINDON. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be 
silent. Tell us who the prisoner is. 

CHRISTY. He's my brother Dick — Richard — Richard 
Dudgeon. 

SWINDON. Your brother! 

CHRISTY. Yes. 



72 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

SWINDON. You are sure he is not Anderson. 

CHRISTY. Who? 

RICHARD Yexasperatedly^ Me, me, me, you — 

SWINDON. Silence, sir. 

SERGEANT \jhouti?ig~\ Silence. 

RICHARD [impatiently^ Yah! [To Cbristy] He wants to 
know am I Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grin- 
ning like a zany. 

CHRISTY ^grinning more than ever\ You Pastor Anderson! 
[To Swindon^ Why, Mr Anderson's a minister — a very 
good man; and Dick's a bad character: the respectable 
people wont speak to him. He's the bad brother: I'm the 
good one. [The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin']. 

SWINDON. Who arrested this man.? 

SERGEANT. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's 
house, sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite 
at home. If he isnt married to her, he ought to be. 

SWINDON. Did he answer to the minister's name? 

SERGEANT. Yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. You 
ask the chaplain, sir. 

SWINDON [to Richard, threateningly^ So, sir you have 
attempted to cheat us. And your name is Richard 
Dudgeon? 

RICHARD. Youve found it out at last, have you? 

SWINDON. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh? 

RICHARD. Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, 
was my uncle. 

SWINDON. Hm! [He compresses his lips, and looks at 
Richard with vindictive gravity'] . 

CHRISTY. Are they going to hang you, Dick? 

RICHARD. Yes. Get out: theyve done with you. 

CHRISTY. And I may keep the china peacocks? 

RICHARD [jumping up'] Get out. Get out, you blither- 
ing baboon, you. [Christy Jiies, panicstricke?i]. 

SWINDON [rising — all rise] Since you have taken the 
minister's place, Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 73 

with it. The execution will take place at 12 o'clock as 
arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before then you 
shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your 
man out. 

JUDITH \jlistracted^ No, no — 

SWINDON [fiercely y dreading a renewal of her entreaties\ 
Take that woman away. 

RICHARD [springing across the table with a tiger- like 
boundy and seizing Swindon by the throat\ You infernal 
scoundrel — 

The Sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the 
soldiers from the other. They seize Richard and drag him 
back to his place. Swindon y who has been thrown supine on 
the table, rises, arrangi?ig his stock. He is about to speak, 
when he is anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just appeared 
at the door with two papers in his hand: a white letter and 
a blue dispatch. 

BURGOYNE [advancing to the tabky elaborately cool~\ What 
is this? Whats happening? Mr Anderson: I'm astonished 
at you. 

RICHARD. I am sorry I disturbed you. General. I merely 
wanted to strangle your understrapper there. [Breaking out 
violently at Swindon\ Why do you raise the devil in me by 
bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal faced dog, I'd 
twist your cursed head off with the greatest satisfaction. 
[He puts out his hands to the Sergeant~\ Here: handcuff me, 
will you; or I'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him. 

T'he Sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to 
Burgoyne for instructions. 

BURGOYNE. Have you addressed profane language to the 
lady. Major Swindon? 

SWINDON [very angry'J No, sir, certainly not. That 
question should not have been put to me. I ordered the 
woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the 
fellow sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am 
perfectly able to take care of myself. 



74 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RICHARD. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel 
with you. 

BURGOYNE. Mr Anderson — 

SWINDON. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. 
He is an impostor. 

BURGOYNE [brusquelj^ Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dud- 
geon at Springtown. 

RICHARD. It was my uncle. General. 

BURGOYNE. Oh, your uncle. [ To Swindoriy handsomely\ 
I beg your pardon. Major Swindon. [Swindon acknowledges 
the apology stiffly. Burgoyne turns to Richard~\ . We are 
somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your family. 
Well, Mr Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who 
is ^reading the name from the letter^ William Maindeck 
Parshotter? 

RICHARD. He is the Mayor o^ Springtown. 

BURGOYNE. Is William — Maindeck and so on — a man 
of his word? 

RICHARD. Is he selling you anything? 

BURGOYNE. No. 

RICHARD. Then you may depend on him. 

BURGOYNE. Thank you, Mr — 'm Dudgeon. By the 
way, since you are not Mr Anderson, do we still — eh. 
Major Swindon? [meaning ^*do we still hang himP""] 

RICHARD. The arrangements are unaltered. General. 

BURGOYNE. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, 
Mr Dudgeon, Good morning, madam. 

RICHARD [interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is 
about to make some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely'^ 
Not one word more. Come. 

She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his deter- 
mination. They are marched out by the four soldiers : the 
Sergeant y very sulky y walking between Swindon and Richard, 
whom he watches as if he were a dangerous animal. 

BURGOYNE. Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major 
Swindon: a word with you. [The officers go out. Burgoyne 



Act III The Devirs Disciple 75 

waits with unruffied serenity until the last of them disappears. 
Then he becomes very grave ^ and addresses Swindon for the 
first time without his titie^. Swindon: do you know what 
this is \_shewing him the letter']^ ? 

SWINDON. What? 

BURGOYNE. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of 
their militia to come here and arrange terms with us. 

SWINDON. Oh, they are giving in. 

BURGOYNE. They add that they are sending the man who 
raised Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we 
may know that we are dealing with aii officer of importance. 

SWINDON. Pooh! 

BURGOYNE. He will be fully empowered to arrange the 
terms of — guess what. 

SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope. 

BURGOYNE. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer 
us just six hours to clear out. 

SWINDON. What monstrous impudence! 

BURGOYNE. What shall we do, eh.? 

SWINDON. March on Springtown and strike a decisive 
blow at once. 

BURGOYNE ^quietlf^ Hm! [T'urning to the door'\ Come 
to the adjutant's office. 

SWINDON. What for. 

BURGOYNE. To writc out that safe-conduct. \JIe puts 
his hand to the door knob to open it'\ . 

SWINDON \who has not budged~^ General Burgoyne. 

BURGOYNE \returning~\ Sir? 

SWINDON. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not 
consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a suffi- 
cient reason for our giving way. 

BURGOYNE \Jmperturbable'] Suppose I resign my command 
to you, what will you do? 

SWINDON. I will undertake to do what we have marched 
south from Boston to do, and what General Howe has 
marched north from New York to do: effect a junction 



76 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

at Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united 
forces. 

BURGOYNE \_e?iigmaticallj^ And will you wipe out our 
enemies in London, too? 

SWINDON. In London! What enemies? 

BURGOYNE \_forciblj\ Jobbery and snobbery, incompe- 
tence and Red Tape. \_He holds up the dispatch and adds, 
with despair in his face and voice] I have just learnt, sir, 
that General Howe is still in ISew York. 

SWINDON [thunderstruck~\ Good God! He has disobeyed 
orders ! 

BURGOYNE [zvith savdonic calm] He has received no 
orders, sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch 
them: he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To 
avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her 
American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at 
Saratoga with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an 
impregnable position. 

SWINDON \_appalled'\ Impossible? 

BURGOYNE \coldlj\ I beg your pardon! 

SWINDON. I cant believe it! What will History say? 

BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: 
we must send the safe-conduct. \He goes out']. 

SWINDON \^following distractedly] My God, my God! 
We shall be wiped out. 

As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. 
The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of 
evildoers y with such minor advertisers and examples of crime 
as the pillory^ the whipping posty and the stocks, has a new 
rope attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, 
out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been brought out 
and placed in position by the tozvn beadle, who stands by to 
guard it from unauthorised climbing. The Webster bridge 
townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the 
news has spread that it is the deviP s disciple and not the 
minister that the Continentals \so they call Burgoyne"* s forces] 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 77 

are about to hang: consequently the execution can be enjoyed 
without any misgiving as to its righteousness y or to the coward- 
ice of allowing it to take place without a struggle. There is 
even some fear of a disappointment as midday approaches and 
the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains the only 
sign of preparation. But at last reassuring shouts of Here 
they come: Here they are, are heard; and a company of sol- 
diers with fixed bayonets, halj British infantry, half Hessians, 
tramp quickly into the middle of the market place, driving the 
crowd to the sides. 

THE SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Drcss. \fThe soldiers change 
their column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty 
officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustli?ig the persons 
who find themselves inside the square out at the corner s~\ . 
Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o yodl 
get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, 
will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin German to 
them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: 
theyll understand that. Get out of it, will you. \He comes 
upon Judith, standing near the gallows'^ . Now then : y o u v e 
no call here. 

JUDITH. May I not stay.? What harm am I doing? 

SERGEANT. I Want none of your argufying. You ought 
to be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged 
thats not your husband. And he's no better than yourself. 
I told my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and 
tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. 
So out of it with you, double quick. 

JUDITH. Will you take these two silver dollars and let 
me stay? 

The sergeant, without an instanf s hesitation, looks quickly 
and furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into 
his pocket. Then he raises his voice in virtuous indigna- 
tion. 

THE SERGEANT. Me take money in the execution of my 
duty! Certainly not. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, to 



78 Three Plays for Puritans Act Hi 

teach you to corrupt the King's officer. I'll put you under 
arrest until the execution's over. You just stand there; 
and dont let me see you as much as move from that spot 
until youre let. [ With a swift wink at her he points to the 
corner of the square behind the gallows on his rights and 
turns noisily away, shouting'] Now then, dress up and keep 
em back, will you. 

Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; 
and the sound of a military band, playing the Dead March 
from Sauly is heard. The crowd becomes quiet at once; and 
the sergeant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the 
square, with a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling 
cause it to open and admit the funeral procession, which is 
protected from the crowd by a double file of soldiers. First 
come Burgoyne and Swindon, who, on entering the square, 
glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under 
it by wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves 
on that side. Then Mr Brudenell, the chaplain, in his sur- 
plice, with his prayer book open in his hand, walking beside 
Richard, who is moody and disorderly. He walks doggedly 
through the gallows framework, and posts himself a little in 
front of it. Behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart 
soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following him, two soldiers haul 
a light military waggon. 'Finally comes the band, which posts 
itself at the back of the square, and finishes the Dead March. 
Judith, watching Richard painfully, steals down to the gal- 
lows, and stands leaning against its right post. During the 
conversation which follows, the two soldiers place the cart 
under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point back- 
wards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the cart 
and places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he 
climbs the tall ladder which stands against the gallows, and 
cuts the string by which the rope is hitched up; so that the 
noose drops dangling over the cart, into which he steps as he 
descends. 

RICHARD \with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell"] Look 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 79 

here, sir: this is no place for a man of your profession. 
Hadnt you better go away? « 

SWINDON. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any 
sense o{ decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the 
chaplain, and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion. 

THE CHAPLAIN [ge^t/y reprovi?ig Richard~\ Try to con- 
trol yourself, and submit to the divine will. \^He lifts his 
book to proceed with the service^. 

RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of 
your accomplices here Syndicating Burgoyne and Swindon^: 
I see little divinity about them or you. You talk to me of 
Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your 
enemies. Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! 
\^To Swindon t more rudely'] Youve got up the solemnity of 
the occasion, as you call it, to impress the people with your 
own dignity — Handel's music and a clergyman to make 
murder look like piety ! Do you suppose / am going to help 
you? Youve asked me to choose the rope because you dont 
know your own trade well enough to shoot me properly. 
Well, hang away and have done with it. 

SWINDON [to the chaplain] Can you do nothing with him, 
Mr Brudenell? 

CHAPLAIN. I will try, sir. [Beginning to read] Man that 
is born of woman hath — 

RICHARD [Jixing his eyes on him] **Thou shalt not kill." 

The book drops in Brudenell' s hands. 

CHAPLAIN [confessifig his embarrassment] What am I to 
say, Mr Dudgeon? 

RICHARD. Let me alone, man, cant you? 

BURGOYNE [with extreme urbanity] I think, Mr Brude- 
nell, that as the usual professioual observations seem to strike 
Mr Dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you 
had better omit them until — er — until Mr Dudgeon can 
no longer be inconvenienced by them. ^Brudenell^ with a 
shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the gallows]. You 
seem in a hurry, Mr Dudgeon. 



8o Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RICHARD [zvitb the horror of death upon him\ Do you 
think this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? 
Youve made up your mind to commit murder: well, do it 
and have done with it. 

BURGOYNE. Mr Dudgeon: we are only doing this — 

RICHARD. Because youre paid to do it. 

SWINDON. You insolent — \he swallows his rage'\ . 

BURGOYNE [with much charm of manner^ Ah, I am really 
sorry that you should think that, Mr Dudgeon. If you 
knew what my commission cost me, and what my pay is, 
you would think better of me. I should be glad to part 
from you on friendly terms. 

RICHARD. Hark ye. General Burgoyne. If you think 
that I like being hanged, youre mistaken. I dont like it; 
and I dont mean to pretend that I do. And if you think 
I'm obliged to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way, 
youre wrong there too. I take the whole business in 
devilish bad part; and the only satisfaction I have in it is 
that youll feel a good deal meaner than I'll look when it's 
over. \He turns away, and is striding to the cart when 
Judith advances and interposes zuith her arms stretched out 
to him. Richardy feeling that a very little will upset his self 
possession^ shrinks from her, crying'] What are you doing 
here? This is no place for you. [She makes a gesture as if 
to touch him. He recoils impatiently.'] No: go away, go 
away; youll unnerve me. Take her away, will you. 

JUDITH. Wont you bid me good-bye? 

RICHARD [allowing her to take his hand] Oh good-bye, 
good-bye. Now go — go — quickly. [She clings to his 
hand — will not be put off with so cold a last farewell — at 
last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws herself on his 
breast in agony] . 

SWINDON [angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at 
JuditF s movement, has come from the back of the square to 
pull her back, and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is too 
late"] How is this? Why is she inside the lines? 



Act III The Devirs Disciple 8i 

SERGEANT \_guiltily^ I dunno, sir. She's that artful — 
cant keep her away. 

BURGOYNE. You wcrc bribed. 

SERGEANT [protesting] No, sir — 

SWINDON [severely^ Fall back. [He obeys~\ . 

RICHARD \implort7igly to those around him, and finally to 
Burgoyne, as the least stolid of them] Take her away. Do 
you think I want a woman near me now? 

BURGOYNE [going to Judith and taking her hand'\ Here, 
madam: you had better keep inside the lines; but stand here 
behind us; and dont look. 

Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases 
him and turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and 
mounts into it. The executioner takes off his coat and pinions 
him. 

JUDITH [resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand 
away] No: I must stay. I wont look. [She goes to the 
right of the gallows. She tries to look at Richard, but turns 
away with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in 
prayer. Brudenell comes tozvards her from the back of the 
square] . 

BURGOYNE [nodding approvingly as she kneels] Ah, quite 
so. Do not disturb her, Mr Brudenell: that will do very 
nicely. [Brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watch- 
ing her sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes his former posi- 
tion, and takes out a handsome gold chronometer]. Now then, 
are those preparations made? We must not detain Mr 
Dudgeon. 

By this time Richard'* s hands are bound behind him; and 
the noose is round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft 
of the waggon, ready to pull it away. The executioner, stand- 
ing in the cart behind Richard, makes a sign to the sergeant. 

SERGEANT \to Burgoyne] Ready, sir. 

BURGOYNE. Have you anything more to say, Mr 
Dudgeon? It wants two minutes of twelve still. 

RICHARD [in the strong voice of a man who has conquered 



82 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

the bitterness of death'\ Your watch is two minutes slow by 
the town clock, which I can see from here. General. 
[ The town clock strikes the first stroke of twelve. Involun- 
tarily the people flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan 
breaks from them\ Amen! my life for the world's future! 

ANDERSON \jhouting as he rushes into the market place~\ 
Amen; and stop the execution. [//> bursts through the line 
of soldiers opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the 
gallows^ . I am Anthony Anderson, the man you want. 

The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears, 
Judith, half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like 
one whose dearest prayer has been granted, 

SWINDON. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take 
your place on the gallows. Arrest him. 

At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to 
seize Anderson. 

ANDERSON \thrusting a paper under Swindon'' s nose^ 
There's my safe-conduct, sir. 

SWINDON \^t a ken abac k^ SdSQ-condMcil Are you — ! 

ANDERSON \emphatically'\ I am. [ The two soldiers take 
him by the elbows']. Tell these men to take their hands 
off me. 

SWINDON [/(? the men] Let him go. 

SERGEANT. Fall back. 

The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise 
a cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a pre- 
sentiment of triumph as they see their Pastor speaking with 
their enemies in the gate. 

ANDERSON [exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing 
his perspiring brow with his handkerchief] Thank God, I 
was in time! 

BURGOYNE \_calm as ever, and still watch in hand] Ample 
time, sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging 
any gentleman by an American clock. \He puts up his 
watch], 

ANDERSON. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of vou 



Act III The DeviFs Disciple 83 

already. General. Now tell them to take the rope from the 
neck of that American citizen. 

BURGOYNE [to the executioTier in the cart — very politely\ 
Kindly undo Mr Dudgeon. 

The executioner takes the rope from Richard' s neck, 
unties his hands, and helps him on zvith his coat. 

JUDITH [stealing timidly to Anderson'\ Tony. 

ANDERSON \j)Utting his arm round her shoulders and ban- 
tering her affectionately^ Well, what do you think of your 
husband now, eh? — eh?? — eh??? 

JUDITH. I am ashamed — \jhe hides her face against his 
breast. ] 

BURGOYNE \to Swindo?i\ You look disappointed. Major 
Swindon. 

SWINDON. You look defeated. General Burgoyne. 

BURGOYNE. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be 
glad of it. \Rii:hard jumps down from the cart, Brudenell 
offering his hand to help him, and runs to Anderson , whose 
left hand he shakes heartily y the right being occupied by 
Judith'\. By the way, Mr Anderson, I do not quite under- 
stand. The safe-conduct was for a commander of the 
militia. I understand you are a — [He looks as pointedly as 
his good manners permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and 
Richard'' s coat, and adds~\ — a clergyman. 

ANDERSON [between Judith and Richard^ Sir: it is in the 
hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This fool- 
ish young man [placing his hand on Richard' s shoulder^ 
boasted himself the Devil's Disciple; but when the hour of 
trial came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer 
and be faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent 
minister of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial 
came to me, I found that it was my destiny to be a man of 
action and that my place was amid the thunder of the cap- 
tains and the shouting. So I am starting life at fifty as 
Captain Anthony Anderson of the Springtown militia; and 
the Devil's Disciple here will start presently as the Reverend 



84 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

Richard Dudgeon, and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and 
give good advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine 
\_putting his other hand on her shoulder. She steals a glance 
at Richard to see how the prospect pleases him'j. Your mother 
told me, Richard, that I should never have chosen Judith if 
I'd been born for the ministry. I am afraid she was right; 
so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and I'll keep 
yours. 

RICHARD. Minister — I should say Captain. I have 
behaved like a fool. 

JUDITH. Like a hero. 

RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps. ^IJ^ith some 
bitterness towards himself A^ But no: if I had been any good, 
I should have done for you what you did for me, instead of 
making a vain sacrifice. 

ANDERSON. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make 
a world — saints as well as soldiers. \Turning to Burgoyne^ 
And now. General, time presses; and America is in a hurry. 
Have you realized that though you may occupy towns and 
win battles, you cannot conquer a nation.? 

BURGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot 
have an aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my 
quarters. 

ANDERSON. At your scrvice, sir. \_To Richard'j See Judith 
home for me, will you, my boy. [He hands her over to 
him^. Now General. \^He goes busily up the market place 
towards the Town Hall^ leaving Judith and Richard together. 
Bur goyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and 
turns to Richard'^. 

BURGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr Dudgeon, I shall be 
glad to see you at lunch at half-past one. [He pauses a 
7noment, and adds, with politely veiled slyness']^ Bring Mrs 
Anderson, if she will be so good. [To Swindon, who is 
fuming\ Take it quietly. Major Swindon: your friend the 
British soldier can stand up to anything except the British 
War Office. [He follows Anderson\ 



Act III The Devil's Disciple 85 

SERGEANT [to Szuindo?f\ What orders, sir? 

SWINDON [_savage/y] Orders! What use are orders now? 
There's no army. Back to quarters; and be d — [He turns 
on his heel and goes^ 

SERGEANT \_pugnacious and patriotic y repudiating the idea 
of defeat'^ 'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and 
shew em you dont care a damn for em. Slope arms! Fours! 
Wheel! Quick march! 

The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band 
strikes up British Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, 
and the English troops march off defiantly to their quarters. 
The townsfolk press in behind, and follow them up the mar- 
ket y jeering at them; and the town band, a very primitive 
affair y brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, 
who comes in with them, runs to Richard. 

ESSIE. Oh, Dick! 

RICHARD \good-humoredly, but wilfully'^ Now, now: 
come, come! I dont mind being hanged; but I will not be 
cried over. 

ESSIE. No, I promise. I'll be good. [^She tries to restrain 
her tears, but cannot^. I — I want to see where the soldiers 
are going to. {She goes a little way up the market, pretend- 
ing to look after the crowd\ . 

JUDITH. Promise me you will never tell him. 

RICHARD. Dont be afraid. 

They shake hands on it. 

ESSIE [calling to them^ They re coming back. They want 
you. 

Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back 
again in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard 
on their shoulders, cheering him. 



NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 

Burgoyne 

General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play 
for the first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, 
is not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait 
as it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection 
to profane swearing is not borrowed from Mr Gilbert's 
H.M.S. Pinafore: it is taken from the Code of Instructions 
drawn up by himself for his officers when he introduced 
Light Horse into the English army. His opinion that 
English soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no 
doubt as unwelcome to the military authorities of his time, 
when nothing was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand 
lashes, as it will be to those modern victims of the flagella- 
tion neurosis who are so anxious to revive that discredited 
sport. His military reports are very clever as criticisms, and 
are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic 
limits, best illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which 
now sounds so curious, that he should blush to ask for pro- 
motion on any other ground than that of family influence. 
As a parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our common 
expression "fighting an election" so very literally that he 
led his supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a 
loaded pistol in each hand, and won the seat, though he was 
fined ^1,000, and denounced by Junius, for the pistols. 

It is only within quite recent years that any general 
recognition has become possible for the feeling that led Bur- 
goyne, a professed enemy of oppression in India and else- 

86 



Notes 87 

where, to accept his American command when so many 
other cfiicers threw up their commissions rather than serve 
in a civil war against the Colonies. His biographer De 
Fonblanque, writing in 1876, evidently regarded his posi- 
tion as indefensible. Nowadays, it is sufficient to say that 
Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He sympathized with the 
colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the disrup- 
tion of the Empire, he regarded that as a step backward in 
civilization. As he put it to the House of Commons, 
'* while we remember that we are contending against 
brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember that 
we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the British 
Empire." Eightyfour years after his defeat, his republican 
conquerors themselves engaged in a civil war for the integrity 
of their Union. In 1885 the Whigs who represented the 
anti-Burgoyne tradition of American Independence in Eng- 
lish politics, abandoned Gladstone and made common cause 
with their poHtical opponents in defence of the Union 
between England and Ireland. Only the other day England 
sent 200,000 men into the field south of the equator to 
fight out the question whether South Africa should develop 
as a Federation of British Colonies or as an independent 
Afrikander United States. In all these cases the Unionists 
who were detached from their parties were called renegades, 
as Burgoyne was. That, of course, is only one of the 
unfortunate consequences of the fact that mankind, being 
for the most part incapable of politics, accepts vituperation 
as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether Burgoyne 
or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, 
Mr Chamberlain or Mr Leonard Courtney was in the right 
will never be settled, because it will never be possible to 
prove that the government of the victor has been better for 
mankind than the government of the vanquished would have 
been. It is true that the victors have no doubt on the 
point; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only 
part of the human comedy. The American LTnionist is 



88 The Devil's Disciple 

often a Separatist as to Ireland; the English Unionist often 
sympathizes with the Polish Home Ruler; and both English 
and American Unionists' are apt to be Disruptionists as 
regards that Imperial Ancient of Days, the Empire of 
China. Both are Unionists concerning Canada, but with 
a difference as to the precise application to it of the Monroe 
doctrine. As for me, the dramatist, I smile, and lead the 
conversation back to Burgoyne. 

Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that occa- 
sionally necessary part of our British system, a scapegoat. 
The explanation of his defeat given in the play (p. 76) is 
founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from Fitz- 
maurice's Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: **Lord George 
Germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dis- 
like to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged 
to call at his office on his way to the country to sign the 
dispatches; but as those addressed to Howe had not been 
fair-copied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his 
projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were 
forgotten on his return home." These were the dispatches 
instructing Sir William Howe, who was in New York, to 
effect a junction at Albany with Burgoyne, who had marched 
from Boston for that purpose. Burgoyne got as far as Sara- 
toga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was 
hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, Boer 
fashion, by the American farmer-sharpshooters. His own 
collar was pierced by a bullet. The publicity of his defeat, 
however, was more than compensated at home by the fact 
that Lord George's trip to Kent had not been interfered 
with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the dis- 
patch. The policy of the English Government and Court 
for the next two years was simply concealment of Germain's 
neglect. Burgoyne's demand for an inquiry was defeated in 
the House of Commons by the court party; and when he 
at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it by a pro- 
rogation. When Burgoyne realized what had happened about 



Notes 89 

the instructions to Howe (the scene in which I have repre- 
sented him as learning it before Saratoga is not historical: 
the truth did not dawn on him until many months after- 
wards) the king actually took advantage of his being a 
prisoner of war in England on parole, and ordered him to 
return to America into captivity. Burgoyne immediately 
resigned all his appointments; and this practically closed his 
mihtary career, though he was afterwards made Commander 
of the Forces in Ireland for the purpose of banishing him 
from parhament. 

The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the 
English sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of 
the aristocracy are at stake. Mr Frank Harris said, after 
the disastrous battle of Modder River, that the English, 
having lost America a century ago because they preferred 
George IJI, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day 
because they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful 
ones. Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess 
came at a critical period of the War of Independence, said 
that the Lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant 
shooting for the^sake of America. In the working class, 
which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there 
is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to **do 
a man out of his job." At bottom, of course, this appar- 
ently shameless sacrifice of great public interests to petty 
personal ones, is simply the preference of the ordinary man 
for the things he can feel and understand to the things that 
are beyond his capacity. It is stupidity, not dishonesty. 

Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. 
Not only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character 
and distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who 
had actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct 
in the field fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical 
temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic, 
and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and 
humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by 



go The Devil's Disciple 

stupid people because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long 
after his death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of 
human character, but was typically stupid in valuing and 
interpreting it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in 
his defeat. That sneer represents the common English atti- 
tude towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which 
the critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for 
both temperaments have their genius) ** muddles through all 
right," is popular in England. But Burgoyne' s failure was 
not the work of his own temperament, but of the stupid 
temperament. What man could do under the circumstances 
he did, and did handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his 
ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own mis- 
conduct, but because Sir George Germain overestimated the 
importance of his Kentish holiday, and underestimated the 
difficulty of conquering those remote and inferior creatures, 
the colonists. And King George and the rest of the nation 
agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is a significant 
point that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy and 
an invader, he was admired and praised. The climate there 
is no doubt more favorable to intellectual vivacity. 

I have described Burgoyne' s temperament as rather his- 
trionic; and the reader will have observed that the Burgoyne 
of the Devil's Disciple is a man who plays his part in life, 
and makes all its points, in the manner of a born high 
comedian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with all his 
comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like 
It into a Beggar's Opera unconceived, I should still have 
painted the same picture of him on the strength of his reply 
to the articles of capitulation proposed to him by his 
American conqueror General Gates. Here they are: 

Proposition. Answer. 

I. General Burgoyne' s army be- Lieut-General Burgoyne' s army, 

ing reduced by repeated defeats, by however reduced, will never admit 

desertion, sickness, etc., their pro- that their retreat is cut off while 

visions exhausted, their military they have arms in their hands. 



Notes 



91 



horses, tents and baggage taken or 
destroyed, their retreat cut off, and 
their camp invested, they can only 
be allowed to surrender as prisoners 
of war. 

2. The officers and soldiers may 
keep the baggage belonging to them. 
The Generals of the United States 
never permit individuals to be pil- 
laged. 

3. The troops under his Excel- 
lency General Burgoyne will be con- 
ducted by che most convenient 
route to Nev/ England, marching 
by easy marches, and sufficiently 
provided for by the way. 

4. The officers will be admitted 
on parole and will be treated with 
the liberality customary in such 
cases, so long as they, by proper 
behaviour, continue to deserve itj 
but those who are apprehended hav- 
ing broke their parole, as some 
British officers have done, must 
expect to be close confined. 

5. All public stores, artillery, 
arms, ammunition, carriages, horses, 
etc., etc., must be delivered to com- 
missaries appointed to receive them. 

6. These terms being agreed to 
and signed, the troops under his 
Excellency's, General Burgoyne' s 
command, may be drawn up in 
their encampments, where they will 
be ordered to ground their arms, 
and may thereupon be marched to 
the river-side on their way to Ben- 
nington. 

And, later on, **If General Gates does not mean to 
recede from the 6th article, the treaty ends at once: the 
army will to a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner 
than submit to that article." 

Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add 



Noted. 



Agreed. 



There being no officer in this 
army under, or capable of being 
under, the description of breaking 
parole, this article needs no answer. 



All public stores may be deliv- 
ered, arms excepted. 



This article is inadmissible in any 
extremity. Sooner than this army 
will consent to ground their arms in 
their encampments, they will rush 
on the enemy determined to take 
no quarter. 



92 The Devil's Disciple 

that he had his own way; and that when the actual cere- 
mony of surrender came, he would have played poor Gen- 
eral Gates off the stage, had not that commander risen to 
the occasion by handing him back his sword. 

In connection with the reference to Indians with scalp- 
ing knives, who, with the troops hired from Germany, 
made up about half Burgoyne's force, I may mention that 
Burgoyne offered two of them a reward to guide a Miss 
McCrea, betrothed to one of the English officers, into the 
English lines. The two braves quarrelled about the reward; 
and the more sensitive of them, as a protest against the 
unfairness of the other, tomahawked the young lady. The 
usual retaliations were proposed under the popular titles of 
justice and so forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would 
certainly have followed suit by a massacre of whites on the 
Canadian frontier, Burgoyne was compelled to forgive the 
crime, to the intense disgust of indignant Christendom. 

Brudenell 

Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery 
chaplain of that name distinguished himself at Saratoga by 
reading the burial service over Major Eraser under fire, and 
by a quite readable adventure, chronicled by Burgoyne, 
with Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet's husband 
achieved the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of 
his adversary, in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the 
heat of his swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a 
pebble. Lady Harriet then married the warrior chaplain, 
who, like Anthony Anderson in the play, seems to have 
mistaken his natural profession. 

The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually 
occurred, like most stories invented by dramatists; but I 
cannot produce any documents. Major Swindon's name is 
invented; but the man, of course, is real. There are dozens 
of him extant to this day. 



CiESAR AND CLEOPATRA 
IX 



1898 



CiESAR AND CLEOPATRA 

ACT I 

An October night on the Syrian border of Egypt towards 
the end of the XXXIII Dynasty, in the year 706 by Roman 
computation, afterwards reckoned by Christian computation as 
48 B.C. A great radiance of silver fire, the dawn of a moon- 
lit nighty is risifig in the east. The stars and the cloudless 
sky are our own contemporaries, nineteen and a half centuries 
younger than we know them; but you would not guess that 
from their appearance. Below them are two notable draw- 
backs of civilization: a palace, and soldiers. The palace, at; 
old, low, Syrian building of whitened mud, is not so ugly as 
Buckingham Palace,- and the officers in the courtyard are 
more highly civilized than modern English officers: for exam- 
ple, they do not dig up the corpses of their dead enemies and 
mutilate them, as we dug up Cromwell and the Mahdi. They 
are in two groups: one intent on the gambling of their captain 
Belzanor, a warrior of fifty, who, with his spear on the 
ground beside his knee, is stooping to throw dice with a sly- 
looking young Persian recruit; the other gathered about a 
guardsman who has just finished telling a naughty story instill 
current in English barracks^ at which they are laughing 
uproariously. They are about a dozen in number, all highly 
aristocratic young Egyptian guardsmen, handsomely equipped 
with weapons and armor, very un English in point of fiot being 
ashamed of and uncomfortable in their professional dress; on 
the contrary, rather ostentatiously and arrogantly warlike, as 
valuing themselves on their military caste, 

95 



9^ Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

Belzanor is a typical veteran, tough and wilful; prompt , 
. capable and crafty where hrute force will serve; helpless ana 
boyish when it will not: an effective sergeant, an incompetent 
general, a deplorable dictator. Would, if influentially con- 
nected, be employed in the two last capacities by a modern 
European State on the strength of his success in the first. Is 
rather to be pitied just now in view of the fact that Julius 
desar is invading his country. Not knowing this, is intent 
on his game with the Persian, whom, as a foreigner, he con- 
siders quite capable of cheating him. 

His subalterns are mostly handsome young fellows whose 
interest in the game and the story symbolizes with tolerable 
completeness the main interests in life of which they are con- 
scious. Their spears are leaning against the walls, or lying 
on the ground ready to their hands. The corner of the court- 
yard forms a triangle of which one side is the front of the 
palace, with a doorway, the other a wall with a gateway. 
The storytellers are on the palace side: the gamblers, on the 
'gateway side. Close to the gateway, against the wall, is a 
stone block high enough te enable a Nubian sentinel, standing 
on it, to look over the wall. The yard is lighted by a torch 
stuck in the wall. As the laughter from the group round 
the storyteller dies away, the kneeling Persian, winning the 
throw, snatches up the stake from the ground, 

BELZANOR. By Apis, Persian, thy gods are good to thee. 

THE PERSIAN. Try yet again, O captain. Double or quits! 

BELZANOR. No Hiore. I am not in the vein. 

THE SENTINEL \_poising his javelin as he peers over the 
wall^ Stand. Who goes there? 

They all start, listening, A strange voice replies from 
without. 

VOICE. The bearer of evil tidings. 

BELZANOR \c ailing to the sentry] Pass him. 

THE SENTINEL [grounding his javelin] Draw near, O 
bearer of evil tidings. 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 97 

BELZANOR \_pocketing the dice a?id picking up his spear\ 
Let us receive this man with honor. He bears evil 
tidings. 

The guardsmen seize their spears and gather about the 
gatey leaving a way through for the new comer. 

PERSIAN [rising from his knee'] Are evil tidings, then, so 
honorable? 

BELZANOR. O barbarous Persian, hear my instruction. 
In Egypt the bearer of good tidings is sacrificed to the gods 
as a thank offering; but no god will accept the blood of the 
messenger of evil. When we have good tidings, we are 
careful to send them in the mouth of the cheapest slave we 
can find. Evil tidings are borne by young noblemen who 
desire to bring themselves into notice. [They join the rest 
at the gate] . 

THE SENTINEL. Pass, O young captain; and bow the 
head in the House of the Queen. 

VOICE. Go anoint thy javelin with fat of swine, O 
Blackamoor; for before morning the Romans will make thee 
eat it to the very butt. 

The owner of the voice, a fair haired dandy, dressed in a 
different fashion to that affected by the guardsmen, but no 
less extravagantly, comes through the gateway laughing. He 
is somewhat battlestained; and his left forearm, bandaged, 
comes through a torn sleeve. In his right hand he carries a 
Roman sword in its sheath. He swaggers down the court- 
yard, the Persian on his right, Belzanor on his left, and the 
guardsmen crozvdijig down behind him. 

BELZANOR. Who art thou that laughest in the House of 
Cleopatra the Queen, and in the teeth of Belzanor, the 
captain of her guard? 

THE NEW COMER. I am Bel AfFris, descended from the 
gods. 

BELZANOR [ceremoniously] Hail, cousin! 

ALL [except the Persian] Hail, cousin! 

PERSIAN. All the Queen's guards are descended from the 



98 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

gods, O stranger, save myself. 1 am Persian, and descended 
from many kings. 

BEL AFFRis [io the guard5meji\ Hail, cousins! [7<? the 
Persian, co7idescendmgly\ Hail, mortal! 

BELZANOR. You havc been in battle, Bel AfFris; and you 
are a soldier among soldiers. You will not let the Queen's 
women have the first of your tidings. 

BEL AFFRIS. I havc no tidings, except that we shall have 
our throats cut presently, women, soldiers, and all. 

PERSIAN \to Belxanor\ I told you so. 

THE SENTINEL \who has been listening^ Woe, alas! 

BEL AFFRIS ^Calling to h'lm^ Peace, peace, poor Ethiop: 
destiny is with the gods who painted thee black. [ To Bel- 
zanor\ What has this mortal [indicating the Persian^ told you? 

BELZANOR. He says that the Roman Julius Caesar, who 
has landed on our shores with a handful of followers, will 
make himself master of Egypt. He is afraid of the Roman 
soldiers. [The guardsmen laugh with boisterous scorn]! 
Peasants, brought up to scare crows and follow the plough. 
Sons of smiths and millers and tanners! And we nobles, 
consecrated to arms, descended from the gods! 

PERSIAN. Belzanor: the gods are not always good to 
their poor relations. 

BELZANOR [hot/y, to the Pe*-sian] Man to man, are we 
worse than the slaves of Caesar? 

BEL AFFRIS [stepping between them] Listen, cousin. Man 
to man, we Egyptians are as gods above the Romans. 

THE GUARDSMEN [exultantiy] Aha! 

BEL AFFRIS. But this Caesar does not pit man against 
man: he throws a legion at you where you are weakest as 
he throws a stone from a catapult; and that legion is as a 
man with one head, a thousand arms, and no religion. I 
have fought against them; and I know. 

BELZANOR [derisively] Were you frightened, cousin? 

The guardsmen roar with laughter, their eyes sparkling at 
the wit of their captain. 



Act I Cassar and Cleopatra 99 

BEL AFFRis. No, cousin ; but I was beaten. They were 
frightened (perhaps); but they scattered us like chaiF. 

The guar dsme?j i much damped^ utter a growl of con- 
temptuous disgust. 

BELZANOR. Could you not die? 

BEL AFFRIS. No: that was too easy to be worthy of a 
descendant of the gods. Besides, there was no time: all 
was over in a moment. The attack came just where we 
least expected it. 

BELZANOR. That shcws that the Romans are cowards. 

BEL AFFRIS. They care nothing about cowardice, these 
Romans: they fight to win. The pride and honor of war 
are nothing to them. 

PERSIAN. Tell US the tale of the battle. What befell? 

THE GUARDSMEN ^gathering eager l-^ round Bel Affris^ Ay: 
the tale of the battle. 

BEL AFFRIS. Know then, that I am a novice in the guard 
of the temple of Ra in Memphis, serving neither Cleopatra 
nor her brother Ptolemy, but only the high gods. We 
went a journey to inquire of Ptolemy why he had driven 
Cleopatra into Syria,- and how we of Egypt should deal 
with the Roman Pompey, newly come to our shores after 
his defeat by Caesar at Pharsalia. What, think ye, did we 
learn? Even that Caesar is coming also in hot pursuit of his 
foe, and that Ptolemy has slain Pompey, whose severed 
head he holds in readiness to present to the conqueror. 
\Sensation among the guardsmen\. Nay, more: we found 
that Caesar is already come; for we had not made half a 
day's journey on our way back when we came upon a city 
rabble flying from his legions, whose landing they had gone 
out to withstand. 

BELZANOR. And ye, the temple guard! did ye not with- 
stand these legions? 

BEL AFFRIS. What man could, that we did. But there 
came the sound of a trumpet whose voice was as the cursing 
of a black mountain. Then saw we a moving wall of 

LofC. 



loo Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

shields coming towards us. You know how the heart burns 
when you charge a fortified wall; but how if the fortified 
wall were to charge you? 

THE PERSIAN [exu/twg 171 havifig told them so~\ Did I not 
say it? 

BEL AFFRis. When the wall came nigh, it changed into 
a line of men — common fellows enough, with helmets, 
leather tunics, and breastplates. Every man of them flung 
his javelin: the one that came my way drove through my 
shield as through a papyrus — lo there! ^e points to the 
bandage on his left arm^ and would have gone through my 
neck had I not stooped. They were charging at the double 
then, and were upon us with short swords almost as soon 
as their javelins. When a man is close to you with such a 
sword, you can do nothing with our weapons: they are all 
too long. 

THE PERSIAN. What did you do? 

BEL AFFRIS. Doublcd my fist and smote my Roman on 
the sharpness of his jaw. He was but mortal after all: he 
lay down in a stupor; and I took his sword and laid it on. 
[Drazving the sword '\ Lo! a Roman sword with Roman 
blood on it! 

THE GUARDSMEN \_approvingly\ Good! [They take the 
sword and hand it rounds examining it curiously^ . 

THE PERSIAN. And your men? 

BEL AFFRIS. Fled. Scattered like sheep. 

BELZANOR [/uriously'\ The cowardly slaves! Leaving the 
descendants of the gods to be butchered! 

BEL AFFRIS \_with add coolness^ The descendants of the 
gods did not stay to be butchered, cousin. The battle was 
not to the strong; but the race was to the swift. The 
Romans, who have no chariots, sent a cloud of horsemen 
in pursuit, and slew multitudes. Then our high priest's 
captain rallied a dozen descendants of the gods and exhorted 
us to die fighting. I said to myself: surely it is safer to 
stand than to lose my breath and be stabbed in the back; so 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra loi 

I joined our captain and stood. Then the Romans treated 
us with respect; for no man attacks a lion when the field 
is full of sheep, except for the pride and honor of war, of 
which these Romans know nothing. So we escaped with 
our lives; and I am come to warn you that you must open 
your gates to Caesar; for his advance guard is scarce an 
hour behind me; and not an Egyptian warrior is left stand- 
ing between you and his legions. 

THE SENTINEL. Woc, alas ! \_He throws down his javelin 
and jiies into the pa lace. 1^ 

BELZANOR. Nail him to the door, quick! \The guardsmen 
rush for him with their spears; but he is too quick for them\. 
Now this news will run through the palace like fire through 
stubble. 

BEL AFFRis. What shall we do to save the women from 
the Romans? 

BELZANOR. Why not kill them? 

PERSIAN. Because we should have to pay blood money 
for some of them. Better let the Romans kill them: it is 
cheaper. 

BELZANOR \awestruch at his brain power'\ O subtle one! 
O serpent! 

BEL AFFRIS. But your Queen? 

BELZANOR. Truc: we must carry off Cleopatra. 

BEL AFFRIS. Will ye not await her command? 

BELZANOR. Command! a girl of sixteen! Not we. At 
Memphis ye deem her a Queen: here we know better. I 
will take her on the crupper of my horse. When we sol- 
diers have carried her out of Ceesar's reach, then the priests 
and the nurses and the rest of them can pretend she is a 
queen again, and put their commands into her mouth. 

PERSIAN. Listen to me, Belzanor. 

BELZANOR. Speak, O subtle beyond thy years. 

THE PERSIAN. Clcopatra's brother Ptolemy is at war with 
her. Let us sell her to him. 

THE GUARDSMEN. O Subtle One! O serpent! 



I02 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

BELZANOR. We dare not. We are descended from the 
gods; but Cleopatra is descended from the river Nile; and 
the lands of our fathers will grow no grain if the Nile rises 
not to water them. Without our father's gifts we should 
hve the lives of dogs. 

PERSIAN. It is true: the Queen's guard cannot live on its 
pay. But hear me further, O ye kinsmen of Osiris. 

THE GUARDSMEN. Speak, O subtlc one. Hear the serpent 
begotten ! 

PERSIAN. Have I heretofore spoken truly to you of 
Caesar, when you thought I mocked you.? 

GUARDSMEN. Truly, truly. 

BELZANOR [reluctantly admitting //] So Bel AfFris says. 

PERSIAN. Hear more of him, then. This Caesar is a 
great lover of women: he makes them his friends and 
counsellors. 

BELZANOR. Faugh ! This rule of women will be the ruin 
of Egypt. 

THE PERSIAN. Let it rather be the ruin of Rome! Caesar 
grows old now: he is past fifty and full of labors and battles. 
He is too old for the young women; and the old women 
are too wise to worship him. 

BEL AFFRIS. Take heed, Persian. Caesar is by this time 
almost within earshot. 

PERSIAN. Cleopatra is not yet a woman: neither is she 
wise. But she already troubles men's wisdom. 

BELZANOR. Ay: that is because she is descended from 
the river Nile and a black kitten of the sacred White Cat. 
What then.? 

PERSIAN. Why, sell her secretly to Ptolemy, and then 
oiFer ourselves to Caesar as volunteers to fight for the over- 
throw of her brother and the rescue of our Queen, the 
Great Granddaughter of the Nile. 

THE GUARDSMEN. O SCrpcnt! 

PERSIAN. He will listen to us if we come with her 
picture in our mouths. He will conquer and kill her 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 103 

brother, and reign in Egypt with Cleopatra for his Queen. 
And we shall be her guard. 

GUARDSMEN. O subtlcst of all the serpents! O admira- 
tion! O wisdom! 

BEL AFFRis. He will also have arrived before you have 
done talking, O word spinner. 

BELZANOR. That is true. ^^n affrighted uproar in tht 
palace interrupts hirn]. Quick: the flight has begun: guard 
the door. ^They rush to the door and form a cordon before it 
with their spears. A mob of women-servants and nurses surges 
out. Those in front recoil fro?n the spears ^ screaming to those 
behind to keep back. Belxanor" s voice dominates the dis- 
turbance as he shout s~\ Back there. In again, unprofitable 
cattle. 

THE GUARDSMEN. Back, Unprofitable cattle. 

BELZANOR. Send us out Ftatateeta, the Queen's chief 
nurse. 

THE WOMEN [calling into the palace'] Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta. 
Come, come. Speak to Belzanor. 

A WOMAN. Oh, keep back. You are thrusting me on the 
spearheads. 

A huge grim woman y her face covered with a network of 
tiny wrinkles, and her eyes old, large, and wise; sinewy 
handed y very tall, very strong; with the mouth of a blood- 
hound and the jaws of a bulldog, appears on the threshold. 
She is dressed like a person of consequence in the palace, and 
confronts the guardsmen insolently. 

FTATATEETA. Make way for the Queen's chief niarse. 

BELZANOR \with sokmn arrogance^ Ftatateeta: I am Bel- 
zanor, the captain of the Queen's guard, descended from 
the gods. 

FTATATEETA \retorting his arrogance with interest^ Bel- 
zanor: I am Ftatateeta, the Queen's chief nurse; and your 
divine ancestors were proud to be painted on the wall in 
the pyramids of the kings whom my fathers served. 

The women laugh triumphantly. 



I04 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

BELZANOR \zvith grim humof^ Ftatateeta: daughter of a 
long-tongued, swivel-eyed chameleon, the Romans are at 
hand. \A cry of terror from the women: they would fly but 
for the spears\ . Not even the descendants of the gods can 
resist them; for they have each man seven arms, each 
carrying seven spears. The blood in their veins is boiling 
quicksilver; and their wives become mothers in three hours, 
and are slain and eaten the next day. 

A shudder of horror from the women. Ftatateeta, despis- 
ing them and scorning the soldiers , pushes her way through 
the crowd and confronts the spear points undismayed. 

FTATATEETA. Then fly and save yourselves, O cowardly 
sons of the cheap clay gods that are sold to fish porters; 
and leave us to shift for ourselves. 

BELZANOR, Not Until you have first done our bidding, O 
terror of manhood. Bring out Cleopatra the Queen to us; 
and then go whither you will. 

FTATATEETA \with a dcrisive laugh'\ Now I know why 
the gods have taken her out of our hands. [The guardsmen 
start and look at one another'] . Know, thou foolish soldier, 
that the Queen has been missing since an hour past sun down. 

BELZANOR [furiously] Hag: you have hidden her to sell 
to Caesar or her brother. [He grasps her by the left wrist, 
and drags her, helped by a few of the guard, to the middle of 
the courtyard, where, as they fling her on her knees, he draws 
a murderous looking knife] . Where is she? Where is she? or 
— [he threatens to cut her throat] . 

FTATATEETA [savagely] Touch me, dog; and the Nile 
will not rise on your fields for seven times seven years of 
famine. 

BELZANOR [frightened, but desperate] I will sacrifice: I 
will pay. Or stay. [To the Persia?;] You, O subtle one: 
your father's lands lie far from the Nile. Slay her. 

PERSIAN [threatening her with his knife] Persia has but 
one god; yet he loves the blood of old women. Where is 
Cleopatra? 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 105 

FTATATEETA. Persian: as Osiris lives, I do not know. 
I chid her for bringing evil days upon us by talking to the 
sacred cats of the priests, and carrying them in her arms. 
I told her she would be left alone here when the Romans 
came as a punishment for her disobedience. And now she 
is gone — run away — hidden. I speak the truth. I call 
Osiris to witness — 

THE WOMEN [protesting officiously^ She speaks the truth, 
Belzanor. 

BELZANOR. You havc frightened the child: she is hiding. 
Search — quick — into the palace — search every corner. 

The guards y led by Belzanor, shoulder their way into the 
palace through the fiying crowd of women y who escape through 
the courtyard gate, 

FTATATEETA \screaming\ Sacrilege! Men in the Queen's 
chambers! Sa — \Her voice dies away as the Persian puts his 
knife to her throat~\ . 

BEL AFFRis [laying a hand on Ftatateetd' s left shoulder"]. 
Forbear her yet a moment, Persian. [To Ftatateeta, very 
significantly^ Mother: your gods are asleep or away hunt- 
ing; and the sword is at your throat. Bring us to where 
the Queen is hid, and you shall live. 

FTATATEETA [contemptuously\ Who shall stay the sword 
in the hand of a fool, if the high gods put it there.? Listen 
to me, ye young men without understanding. Cleopatra 
fears me; but she fears the Romans more. There is but one 
power greater in her eyes than the wrath of the Queen's 
nurse and the cruelty of Caesar; and that is the power of 
the Sphinx that sits in the desert watching the way to the 
sea. What she would have it know, she tells into the ears 
of the sacred cats; and on her birthday she sacrifices to it 
and decks it with poppies. Go ye therefore into the desert 
and seek Cleopatra in the shadow of the Sphinx; and on 
your heads see to it that no harm comes to her. 

BEL AFFRIS [to the Persian] May we believe this, O 
subtle one? 



io6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

PERSIAN. Which way come the Romans? 

BEL AFFRis. Over the desert, from the sea, by this very 
Sphinx. 

PERSIAN [/(? Ftatateetd\ O mother of guile! O aspic's 
tongue! You have made up this tale so that we two may go 
into the desert and perish on the spears of the Romans. 
\Lifting his knife'] Taste death. 

FTATATEETA. Not ffom thee, baby. [She snatches his 
ankle from under him and fies stooping along the palace wall, 
vanishing in the darkness within its precinct. Bel Affris 
roars with laughter as the Persian tumbles. The guardsmen 
rush out of the palace with Belzanor and a mob of fugitives y 
mostly carrying bundles] . 

PERSIAN. Have you found Cleopatra? 

BELZANOR. She is gone. We have searched every corner. 

THE NUBIAN SENTINEL [appearing at the door of the palace] 
Woe! Alas! Fly, fly! 

BELZANOR. What is the matter now? 

THE NUBIAN SENTINEL. The sacrcd white cat has been 
stolen. 

ALL. Woe! Woe! \Ge?ieral panic. They all fly with 
cries of consternation. The torch is thrown down and extin- 
guished in the rush. Darkness. The noise of the fugitives 
dies away. Dead silence. Suspense. Then the blackness 
and stillness break softly into silver mist and strange airs as 
the windswept harp of Memnon plays at the dawning of the 
moon. It rises full over the desert; and a vast horizon comes 
into relief broken by a huge shape which soon reveals itself 
in the spreading radiance as a Sphinx pede stalled on the 
sands. The light still clears, until the upraised eyes of the 
image are distinguished looking straight forward and upward 
in infinite fearless vigil, and a mass of color between its great 
paws defines itself as a heap of red poppies on which a girl 
lies motionless, her silken vest heaving gently and regularly 
with the breathing of a dreamless sleeper, and her braided 
hair glittering in a shaft of moonlight like a bird'' s wing. 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 107 

Suddenly there comes from afar a vaguely fearful sound 
(^it might be the bellow of a Minotaur softened by great 
distance) and Memnon' s music stops. Silence: then a few faint 
high-ringing trumpet notes. Then silence again. Then a man 
comes from the south with stealing steps ^ ravished by the 
mystery of the nighty all wonder y and halts ^ lost in contem- 
plationy opposite the left fank of the Sphinx, whose bosom^ 
with its burden, is hidden from him by its massive shoulder. 

THE MAN. Hail, Sphinx: salutation from Julius C^sar! 
I have wandered in many lands, seeking the lost regions 
from which my birth into this world exiled me, and the 
company of creatures such as I myself. I have found flocks 
and pastures, men and cities, but no other Csesar, no air 
native to me, no man kindred to me, none who can do my 
day's deed, and think my night's thought. In the little 
world yonder. Sphinx, my place is as high as yours in this 
great desert; only I wander, and you sit still; I conquer, 
and you endure; I work and wonder, you watch and wait; 
I look up and am dazzled, look down and am darkened, 
look round and am puzzled, whilst your eyes never turn 
from looking out — out of the world — to the lost region — 
the home from which we have strayed. Sphinx, you and 
I, strangers to the race of men, are no strangers to one 
another: have I not been conscious of you and of this place 
since I was born.? Rome is a madman's dream: this is my 
Reality. These starry lamps of yours I have seen from 
afar in Gaul, in Britain, in Spain, in Thessaly, signalling 
great secrets to some eternal sentinel below, whose post I 
never could find. And here at last is their sentinel — an 
image of the constant and immortal part of my life, silent, 
full of thoughts, alone in the silver desert. Sphinx, Sphinx: 
I have climbed mountains at night to hear in the distance 
the stealthy footfall of the winds that chase your sands in 
forbidden play — our invisible children, O Sphinx, laughing 
in whispers. My way hither was the way of destiny; for 



io8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

I am he of whose genius you are the symbol: part brute, 
part woman, and part god — nothing of man in me at all. 
Have I read your riddle. Sphinx? 

THE GIRL [zvbo hds wakcuedy and peeped cautiously from 
her nest to see who is speaking\ Old gentleman. 

CiESAR [starting violently, and clutching his szvord'j 
Immortal gods! 

THE GIRL. Old gentleman: dont run away. 

c^SAR [stupejjed'\ **01d gentleman: dont run away"!!! 
This! to Julius Caesar! 

THE GIRL [urgently"] Old gentleman. 

c^SAR. Sphinx: you presume on your centuries. I am 
younger than you, though your voice is but a girl's voice 
as yet. 

THE GIRL. Climb up here, quickly; or the Romans will 
come and eat you. 

CiESAR [running forward past the Sphinx* s shoulder , and 
seeing her] A child at its breast! a divine child! 

THE GIRL. Come up quickly. You must get up at its 
side and creep round. 

c^SAR [amazed] Who are you? 

THE GIRL. Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. 

C^SAR. Queen of the Gypsies, you mean. 

CLEOPATRA. You must not be disrespectful to me, or the 
Sphinx will let the Romans eat you. Come up. It is quite 
cosy here. 

c^SAR [to himself] What a dream! What a magnificent 
dream! Only let me not wake, and I will conquer ten 
continents to pay for dreaming it out to the end. [He 
climbs to the Sphinxes flank y and presently reappears to her 
on the pedestaly stepping round its right shoulder] . 

CLEOPATRA. Take care. That's right. Now sit down: 
you may have its other paw. [She seats herself comfortably 
on its left paw] . It is very powerful and will protect us; 
but [shivering, and with plaintive loneliness] it would not 
take any notice of me or keep me company. I am glad you 



Act I Cassar and Cleopatra 109 

have come: I was very lonely. Did you happen to see a 
white cat anywhere? 

CiESAR [sitting slowly down on the right paw in extreme 
wonderment^ Have you lost one? 

CLEOPATRA. Ycs: the sacred white cat: is it not dreadful? 
I brought him here to sacrifice him to the Sphinx; but 
when we got a little way from the city a black cat called 
him, and he jumped out of my arms and ran away to it. 
Do you think that the black cat can have been my great- 
great-great-grandmother? 

Ci^SAR [staring at her"] Your great-great-great-grand- 
mother! Well, why not? Nothing would surprise me on 
this night of nights. 

CLEOPATRA. I think it must have been. My great-grand- 
mother's great-grandmother was a black kitten of the sacred 
white cat; and the river Nile made her his seventh wife. 
That is why my hair is so wavy. And I always want to be 
let do as I like, no matter whether it is the will of the 
gods or not: that is because my blood is made with Nile 
water. 

CiESAR. What are you doing here at this time of night? 
Do you live here? 

CLEOPATRA. Of course not: I am the Queen; and I shall 
live in the palace at Alexandria when 1 have killed my 
brother, who drove me out of it. When I am old enough 
I shall do just what I Hke. I shall be able to poison the 
slaves and see them wriggle, and pretend to Ftatateeta that 
she is going to be put into the fiery furnace. 

CiESAR. Hm! Meanwhile why are you not at home and 
in bed? 

CLEOPATRA. Bccausc the Romans are coming to cat us 
all. You are not at home and in bed either. 

c-flESAR [with conviction] Yes I am. I live in a tent; and 
I am now in that tent, fast asleep and dreaming. Do you 
suppose that I believe you are real, you impossible little 
dream witch? 



no Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

CLEOPATRA [gtggUng and leaning trustfully towards him\ 
You are a funny old gentleman. I like you. 

c^SAR. Ah, that spoils the dream. Why dont you 
dream that I am young? 

CLEOPATRA. I wish you v/ere; only I think I should be 
more afraid of you. I like men, especially young men with 
round strong arms; but I am afraid of them. You are old 
and rather thin and stringy; but you have a nice voice; and 
I like to have somebody to talk to, though I think you are 
a little mad. It is the moon that makes you talk to yourself 
in that silly way. 

c^SAR. What! you heard that, did you? I was saying 
my prayers to the great Sphinx. 

CLEOPATRA. But this isnt the great Sphinx. 

CwKSAR \7nuch disappointed, looking up at the statue^ 
What! 

CLEOPATRA. This is only a dear little kitten of the Sphinx. 
Why, the great Sphinx is so big that it has a temple between 
its paws. This is my pet Sphinx. Tell me: do you think 
the Romans have any sorcerers who could take us away from 
the Sphinx by magic? 

c^SAR. Why? Are you afraid of the Romans? 

CLEOPATRA [very seriously'] Oh, they would eat us if they 
caught us. They are barbarians. Their chief is called Julius 
Caesar. His father was a tiger and his mother a burning 
mountain; and his nose is like an elephant's trunk. [^C^sar 
involuntarily rubs his nose]. They all have long noses, and 
ivory tusks, and little tails, and seven arms with a hundred 
arrows in each; and they live on human flesh. 

CJESAR. Would you like me to show you a real Roman? 

CLEOPATRA ^terrifed] No. You are frightening me. 

CiESAR. No matter: this is only a dream — 

CLEOPATRA [excitedly] It is not a dream: it is not a 
dream. See, see. \_She plucks a pin from her hair and jabs 
it repeatedly into his arm]. 

c^sAR. Ffff — Stop. [Wrathfully] How dare you? 



Act I Cassar and Cleopatra 1 1 1 

CLEOPATRA [aifasbec/'\ You said you were dreaming. 
[Jf^himperi?ig\ I only wanted to shew you — 

c^SAR [^gentiy] Come, come: dont cry. A queen mustnt 
cry. [^He rubs his arm, wondering at the reality of the smari\. 
Ami awake? \He strikes his hand against the Sphinx to test 
its solidity. It feels so real that he begins to be alarmed, and 
says perplexedly^ Yes, I — \_quite panicstricken\ no: impos- 
sible: madness, madness! \Desperately\ Back to camp — 
to camp \H.^ ^^^^^ ^^ spring down from the pedestal^. 

CLEOPATRA \flinging her arms in terror round him~^ No: 
you shant leave me. No, no, no: dont go. I'm afraid — 
afraid of the Romans. 

c^SAR \j2s the conviction that he is really awake forces 
itself on him~\ Cleopatra: can you see my face well? 

CLEOPATRA. Yes. It is so white in the moonlight. 

c^SAR. Are you sure it is the moonlight that makes me 
look whiter than an Egyptian? \_Grimly'\ Do you notice 
that I have a rather long nose? 

CLEOPATRA [rccoiUng, paralyzed by a terrible suspicion^ 
Oh! 

CiESAR. It is a Roman nose, Cleopatra. 

CLEOPATRA. Ah ! [ With a piercing scream she springs up; 
darts round the left shoulder of the Sphinx; scrambles down 
to the sand; and falls on her knees in frantic supplication, 
shrieking~'\^ Bite him in two. Sphinx: bite him in two. I 
meant to sacrifice the white cat — I did indeed — I [^Ccesar, 
who has slipped down from the pedestal, touches her on the 
shoulder"^ Ah ! \She buries her head in her arms'\ . 

CiESAR. Cleopatra: shall I teach you a way to prevent 
Caesar from eating you? 

CLEOPATRA [^cHngifig to him piteously'\ Oh do, do, do. 
I will steal Ftatateeta's jewels and give them to you. I will 
make the river Nile water your lands twice a year. 

CiESAR. Peace, peace, my child. Your gods are afraid 
of the Romans: you see the Sphinx dare not bite me, nor 
prevent me carrying you off to Julius Caesar. 



112 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

CLEOPATRA [/> pleading murmurtngs\ You wont, you 
wont. You said you wouldnt. 

c^SAR. Cassar never eats women. 

CLEOPATRA [springing up full of hope^ What! 

CiESAR [impressively^ But he eats girls [she relapses^ and 
cats. Now you are a silly little girl; and you are descended 
from the black kitten. You are both a girl and a cat. 

CLEOPATRA [trembling^ And will he eat me? 

CiESAR. Yes; unless you make him believe that you are a 
woman. 

CLEOPATRA. Oh, you must get a sorcerer to make a 
woman of me. Are you a sorcerer? 

Ci^SAR. Perhaps. But it will take a long time; and this 
very night you must stand face to face with Caesar in the 
palace of your fathers. 

CLEOPATRA. No, no. I darcnt. 

c^sAR. Whatever dread may be in your soul — however 
terrible Cssar may be to you — you must confront him as 
a brave woman and a great queen; and you must feel no 
fear. If your hand shakes: if your voice quavers; then — 
night and death! ]^She moans']. But if he thinks you worthy 
to rule, he will set you on the throne by his side and make 
you the real ruler of Egypt. 

CLEOPATRA [despairingly'] No: he will find me out: he 
will find me out. 

CiESAR [rather mourffully'] He is easily deceived by 
women. Their eyes dazzle him; and he sees them not as 
they are, but as he wishes them to appear to him. 

CLEOPATRA [hopefully'\ Then we will cheat him. I will 
put on Ftatateeta's head-dress; and he will think me quite 
an old woman. 

CiESAR. If you do that he will eat you at one mouthful. 

CLEOPATRA. But I will givc him a cake with my magic 
opal and seven hairs of the white cat baked in it; and — 

C-ffiSAR [abruptly] Pah! you are a little fool. He will 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 113 

eat your cake and you too. [He turns contemptuously from 
ber], 

CLEOPATRA [running after him and clinging to him'\ Oh 
please, please ! I will do whatever you tell me. I will be 
good! I will be your slave. [Again the terrible bellowing 
note sounds across the desert, now closer at hand. It is the 
bucinay the Roman war trumpet'] . 

c^SAR. Hark! 

CLEOPATRA [trembling] What was that? 

c^SAR. Cassar's voice. 

CLEOPATRA [pulUng at his hand] Let us run away. 
Come. Oh, come. 

CiESAR. You are safe with me until you stand on your 
throne to receive Caesar. Now lead me thither. 

CLEOPATRA [only too glad to get away] I will, I will. 
[Again the bucina]. Oh, come, come, come: the gods are 
angry. Do you feel the earth shaking? 

c^SAR. It is the tread of Caesar's legions. 

CLEOPATRA [drawing him away] This way, quickly. 
And let us look for the white cat as we go. It is he that has 
turned you into a Roman. 

c^SAR. Incorrigible, oh, incorrigible! Away! [He fol- 
lows her, the bucina sounding louder as they steal across the 
desert. The moonlight wanes: the horizon again shows black 
against the sky, broken only by the fantastic silhouette of the 
Sphinx. The sky itself vanishes in darkness, from which 
there is no relief until the gleam of a distant torch falls on 
great Egyptian pillars supporting the roof of a majestic corri- 
dor. At the further end of this corridor a Nubian slave 
appears carrying the torch. Casar, still led by Cleopatra, 
follows him. They come down the corridor, Casar peering 
keenly about at the strange architecture, and at the pillar 
shadows between which, as the passing torch makes them 
hurry noiselessly backwards, figures of men with wings and 
hawk* s heads, and vast black marble cats, seem to fit in and 



114 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

out of ambush. Further alongy the wall turns a corner and 
makes a spacious transept in which Casar sees, on his right, 
a throne, and behind the throne a door. On each side of the 
throne is a slender pillar with a lamp on it\ 

CiESAR. What place is this? 

CLEOPATRA. This is where I sit on the throne when I 
am allowed to wear my crown and robes. yThe slave holds 
his torch to shew the throne^, 

c^SAR. Order the slave to light the lamps. 

CLEOPATRA [i-^j/y] Do you think I may? 

CiESAR. Of course. You are the Queen. \She hesitates^. 
Go on. 

CLEOPATRA [timidly, to the slave'\ Light all the lamps. 

FTATATEETA [suddenly coming from behind the throne"^ 
Stop. [ The slave stops. She turns sternly to Cleopatra, who 
quails like a naughty child~\ . Who is this you have with 
you; and how dare you order the lamps to be lighted without 
my permission? [Cleopatra is dumb with apprehe%sioti\. 

CiESAR. Who is she? 

CLEOPATRA. Ftatateeta. 

FTATATEETA \arrogantly\ Chief nurse to — 

c^sAR [cutting her short'\ I speak to the Queen. Be 
silent. [To Cleopatra^ Is this how your servants know their 
places? Send her away; and do you [to the slave"] do as the 
Queen has bidden. [The slave lights the lamps. Meanwhile 
Cleopatra stands hesitating, afraid of Ftatateeta] . You are 
the Queen: send her away. 

CLEOPATRA [caJoUng] Ftatateeta, dear: you must go 
away — just for a little. 

c^SAR. You are not commanding her to go away: you 
are begging her. You are no Queen. You will be eaten. 
Farewell. [He turns to go] . 

CLEOPATRA [clutching him] No, no, no. Dont leave 
me. 

c^sAR. A Roman does not stay with queens who are 
afraid of their slaves. 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 115 

CLEOPATRA. I am not afraid. Indeed I am not afraid. 

FTATATEETA. We shall scc who is afraid here. \_Men- 
aci?igly^ Cleopatra — 

CiESAR. On your knees, woman: am I also a child that 
you dare trifle with me? \^He points to the jioor at Cleopatra^ s 
feet, Ftatateeta, half cowed y half savage ^ hesitates. Casar 
calls to the Nubian'\ Slave. Y^he Nubian comes to him\ Can 
you cut off a head? [ The Nubian nods and grins ecstatically y 
showing all his teeth. Ccesar takes his sword by the scabbard, 
ready to offer the hilt to the Nubian, and turns again to 
Ftatateeta, repeating his gesture^ Have you remembered 
yourself, mistress? 

Ftatateeta, crushed, kneels before Cleopatra, who can 
hardly believe her eyes. 

FTATATEETA \hoarsely^ O Queen, forget not thy servant 
in the days of thy greatness. 

CLEOPATRA SJ)la%ing with excitement'] Go. Begone. Go 
away. [^Ftatateeta rises with stooped head, and moves back- 
wards towards the door. Cleopatra watches her submission 
eagerly, almost clapping her hands, which are trembling. 
Suddenly she cries^ Give me something to beat her with. 
[She snatches a snake-skin from the throne and dashes after 
Ftatateeta, whirling it like a scourge in the air. Ccesar 
makes a bound and manages to catch her and hold her while 
Ftatateeta escapes]. 

c^sAR. You scratch, kitten, do you? 

CLEOPATRA [breaking fro?n him] I will beat somebody. I 
will beat him, [She attacks the slave]. There, there, there! 
[The slave fies for his life up the corridor and vanishes. She 
throws the snake-skin away and jumps on the step of the throne 
with her arms waving, crying] I am a real Queen at last — 
a real, real Queen! Cleopatra the Queen! [Ceesar shakes 
his head dubiously, the advantage of the change seeming open 
to question from the point of view of the general welfare of 
Egypt. She turns and looks at him exultantly. Then she 
jumps down from the step, runs to him, and flings her arms 



ii6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

round him rapturously y crying\ Oh, I love you for making 
me a Queen. 

c^SAR. But queens love only kings. 

CLEOPATRA. I will make all the men I love kings. I will 
make you a king. I will have many young kings, with 
round, strong arms; and when I am tired of them I will 
whip them to death; but you shall always be my king: my 
nice, kind, wise, good old king. 

CiESAR. Oh, my wrinkles, my wrinkles! And my child's 
heart! You will be the most dangerous of all Caesar's con- 
quests. 

CLEOPATRA [appalled^ Caesar! I forgot Caesar. [^Anx- 
iously] You will tell him that I am a Queen, will you not? — 
a real Queen . Listen ! [stealthily coaxing him] : let us run 
away and hide until Caesar is gone. 

CiESAR. If you fear Caesar, you are no true queen; and 
though you were to hide beneath a pyramid, he would go 
straight to it and lift it with one hand. And then — ! [he 
chops his teeth together]. 

CLEOPATRA [trembling] Oh! 

ciESAR. Be afraid if you dare. [The note of the bucina 
resounds again in the distance. She moans with fear. Ccesar 
exults in it, exclaiming] Aha! Caesar approaches the throne 
of Cleopatra. Come: take your place. [He takes her hand 
and leads her to the throne. She is too downcast to speak] . 
Ho, there, Teetatota. How do you call your slaves? 

CLEOPATRA [spiritlessly y as she sinks on the throne and 
cowers there y shaking]. Clap your hands. 

He claps his hands. Ftatateeta returns. 

CiESAR. Bring the Queen's robes, and her crown, and 
her women; and prepare her. 

CLEOPATRA [eagerly — recovering herself a little] Yes, the 
crown, Ftatateeta: I shall wear the crown. 

FTATATEETA. For whom must the Queen put on her state? 

ciESAR. For a citizen of Rome. A king of kings, Tota- 
teeta. 



Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 117 

CLEOPATRA [stamping at ber] How dare you ask ques- 
tions? Go and do as you are told. [Ftatateeta goes out with 
a grim smile. Cleopatra goes on eagerly^ to Caesar] Caesar 
will know that I am a Queen when he sees my crown and 
robes, will he not? 

CiESAR. No. How shall he know that you are not a 
slave dressed up in the Queen's ornaments? 

CLEOPATRA. You must tell him. 

C-SSAR. He will not ask me. He will know Cleopatra 
by her pride, her courage, her majesty, and her beauty. 
\^She looks very doubtful\. Are you trembling? 

CLEOPATRA \_shivering with dread^ No, I — I — [/> a very 
sickly voice~\ No. 

Ftatateeta and three women come in with the regalia. 

FTATATEETA. Of all the Qucen's women, these three 
alone are left. The rest are fled. [ They begin to deck Cleo- 
patra y who submits y pale and motionless^ 

c^SAR. Good, good. Three are enough. Poor Caesar 
generally has to dress himself. 

FTATATEETA \contemptuously'\ The queen of Egypt is not 
a Roman barbarian. \To Cleopatra'\ Be brave, my nursHng. 
Hold up your head before this stranger. 

Ci5:sAR [admiring Cleopatra, and placing the crown on her 
head^ Is it sweet or bitter to be a Queen, Cleopatra? 

CLEOPATRA. Bitter. 

c^SAR. Cast out fear; and you will conquer Cassar. 
Tota: are the Romans at hand? 

FTATATEETA. They are at hand; and the guard has fled. 

THE WOMEN [waiUng subduedly\ Woe to us! 

The Nubian comes ru?ining down the hall. 

NUBIAN. The Romans are in the courtyard. [He bolts 
through the door. With a shriek, the women Jly after him. 
Ftatateeta* s jaw expresses savage resolution: she does not 
budge. Cleopatra can hardly restrain herself from following 
them. Ccesar grips her wrist, and looks steadfastly at her. 
She stands like a martyr~\ . 



1 1 8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

c^SAR. The Queen must face Cassar alone. Answer 
"So be it." 

CLEOPATRA [zuhiti] So be it. 

c^SAR \^releasing her\ Good. 

A tramp and tumult of armed men is heard. Cleopatra* s 
terror increases. The bucina sounds close at hand, followed by 
a formidable clangor of trumpets. This is too much for Cleo- 
patra: she utters a cry and darts towards the door. Ftatateeta 
stops her ruthlessly. 

FTATATEETA. You are my nursling. You have said *• So 
be it"; and if you die for it, you must make the Queen's 
word good. \_She hands Cleopatra to Ccesar^ who takes her 
backy almost beside herself with apprehension, to the throne \. 
c^SAR. Now, if you quail — ! [^He seats himself on the 
throne^ . 

She stands on the step, all but unconscious, waiting for 
death. The Roman soldiers troop in tumultuously through 
the corridor, headed by their ensign with his eagle, and their 
bucinator, a burly fellow with his instrument coiled round his 
body, its brazen bell shaped like the head of a howling wolf. 
When they reach the transept, they stare in amazement at 
the throne; dress into ordered rank opposite it; draw their 
swords and lift them in the air with a shout of Hail, 
Caesar. Cleopatra turns and stares wildly at Caesar; grasps 
the situation; and, with a great sob of relief, falls into his 
arms. 



ACT II 

Alexandria. A hall on the first fioor of the Palace^ ending 
in a loggia approached by two steps. Through the arches of 
the loggia the Mediterranean can be seen, bright in the 
morning sun. The clean lofty walls y painted with a procession 
of the Egyptian theocracy y presented in profile as fiat orna- 
menty and the absence of mirrorsy sham perspectiveSy stuffy 
upholstery and textiles y make the place handsome y wholesome, 
simple and cooly ory as a rich English manufacturer would 
express //, poory barey ridiculous and unhomely. For Totten- 
ham Court Road civilization is to this Egyptian civilization 
as glass bead and tattoo civilization is to Tottenham Court 
Road. 

The young king Ptolemy Dionysus {^aged te?i) is at the top 
of the stepsy on his way in through the loggia, led by his 
guardian Pothinusy who has him by the hand. The court is 
assembled to receive him. It is made up of men and women 
(^some of the women being ofiicials^ of various complexions and 
racesy mostly Egyptian- some of them, comparatively fairy 
from lower Egypt; somey much darkery from upper Egypt; 
with a few Greeks and Jezus. Prominent in a group on 
Ptolemf s right hand is TheodotuSy Ptolemy* s tutor. Another 
group y on Ptolem.f s lefty is headed by Achillas, the general of 
Ptolemy'' s troops. Theodotus is a little old many whose features 
are as cramped and wizened as his limbsy except his tall 
straight forehead, which occupies more space than all the rest 
of his face. He maintains an air of magpie keenness and pro- 
fundity y listening to what the others say with the sarcastic 
vigilance of a philosopher listening to the exercises of his dis- 

119 



1 20 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii 

ciples, Achillas is a tall handsome man of thirty-Jive, with a 
fine black beard curled like the coat of a poodle. Apparently 
not a clever man, but distinguished and dignified. Pothinus 
is a vigorous man of fifty y a eunuch, passionate, energetic and 
quick witted, but of common mind and character; impatient 
and unable to control his temper. He has fine tawny hair, 
like fur. Ptolemy, the King, looks much older than an Eng- 
lish boy of ten; but he has the childish air, the habit of being 
in leading strings, the mixture of impotence and petulance, 
the appearance of being excessively washed, combed and 
dressed by other hands, which is exhibited by court-bred 
princes of all ages. 

All receive the King with reverences. He comes down 
the steps to a chair of state which stands a little to his right, 
the only seat in the hall. Taking his place before it, he looks 
nervously for instructions to Pothinus, who places himself at 
his left hand. 

POTHINUS. The king of Egypt has a word to speak. 

THEODOTUS \in a squeak which he makes impressive by 
sheer selfopinionativeness~\ Peace for the King's word! 

PTOLEMY [without any vocal infiexions: he is evidently 
repeating a lesson~\ Take notice of this all of you. I am 
the firstborn son of Auletes the Flute Blower who was your 
King. My sister Berenice drove him from his throne and 
reigned in his stead but — but — [he hesitates^ — 

POTHINUS [stealthily prompting"]— hut the gods would 
not suffer — 

PTOLEMY. Yes — the gods would not suffer — not suffer — 
[He stops; then, crestfallen'] I forget what the gods would 
not suffer. 

THEODOTUS. Let Pothinus, the King's guardian, speak 
for the King. 

POTHINUS [suppressing his impatience with difficulty] The 
King wished to say that the gods would not suffer the 
impiety of his sister to go unpunished. 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 121 

PTOLEMY [^basti/y] Yes: I remember the rest of it. [//^ 
resumes his monotone^. Therefore the gods sent a stranger 
one Mark Antony a Roman captain of horsemen across the 
sands of the desert and he set my father again upon the 
throne. And my father took Berenice my sister and struck 
her head off. And now that my father is dead yet another 
of his daughters my sister Cleopatra would snatch the king- 
dom from me and reign in my place. But the gods would 
not suiFer — \Pothinus coughs admonitoriiy\ — the gods — the 
gods would not suffer — 

POTHiNUs \^promptirig^ — -will not maintain — 

PTOLEMY. Oh yes — will not maintain such iniquity they 
will give her head to the axe even as her sister's. But with 
the help of the witch Ftatateeta she hath cast a spell on the 
Roman Julius Caesar to make him uphold her false pretence 
to rule in Egypt. Take notice then that I will not suffer — 
that I will not suffer — \^pettishlyy to Pothinus'] What is it 
that I will not suffer.? 

POTHINUS [suddenly exploding with all the force and 
emphasis of political passion^ The King will not suffer a 
foreigner to take from him the throne of our Egypt. ^A 
shout of applause~\ . Tell the King, Achillas, how many 
soldiers and horsemen follow the Roman? 

THEODOTUs. Let the King's general speak! 

ACHILLAS. But two Roman legions, O King. Three 
thousand soldiers and scarce a thousand horsemen. 

The court breaks into derisive laughter; and a great 
chattering begins y amid which Rufioy a Roman officer y appears 
in the loggia. He is a burly y black-bearded man of middle 
age, very blunt y prompt and rough, with small clear eyesy 
and plump nose and cheeks y which y however y like the rest of 
his fleshy are in ironhard condition. 

RUFio \_from the steps'^ Peace, ho! \T'he laughter and 
chatter cease abruptly'\ . Csesar approaches. 

THEODOTUS \with much presence of mind~\ The King 
permits the Roman commander to enter! 



122 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

CeesaVy plainly dressed^ but wearing an oak wreath to 
conceal his baldnessy enters from the loggia^ attended by 
Britannus, his secretary y a Briton, about forty y tall, solemn, 
and already slightly bald, with a heavy, drooping, hazel- 
colored moustache trained so as to lose its ends in a pair of 
trim whiskers. He is carefully dressed in blue, with portfolio, 
inkhorn, and reed pen at his girdle. His serious air and 
sense of the importance of the business in hand is in marked 
contrast to the kindly interest of Casar, who looks at the 
scene, which is new to him, with the fra7ik curiosity of a child, 
and then turns to the king's chair: Britannus and Rufio post- 
ing themselves near the steps at the other side. 

ciESAR \looking at Pothinus and Ptolemy] Which is the 
King? the man or the boy? 

POTHINUS. I am Pothinus, the guardian of my lord the 
King. 

CiESAR [patting Ptolemy kindly on the shoulder^ So you 
are the King. Dull work at your age, eh? [T<? Pothinus'] 
Your servant, Pothinus. [He turns away unconcernedly and 
comes slowly along the middle of the hall, looking from side to 
side at the courtiers until he reaches Achillas'], And this 
gentleman? 

THEODOTUs. Achillas, the King's general. 

c^SAR [to Achillas, very friendly] A general, eh? I am 
a general myself. But I began too old, too old. Health and 
many victories, Achillas! 

ACHILLAS. As the gods will, Caesar. 

CiESAR [turning to Theodotus] And you, sir, are — ? 

THEODOTUS. Theodotus, the King's tutor. 

CiESAR. You teach men how to be kings, Theodotus. 
That is very clever of you. [Looking at the gods on the 
walls as he turns away from Theodotus and goes up again to 
Pothinus] And this place? 

POTHINUS. The council chamber of the chancellors of 
the King's treasury, Caesar. 

c^SAR. Ah! that reminds me. I want some money. 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 123 

POTHINUS. The King's treasury is poor, Caesar. 

c^sAR. Yes: I notice that there is but one chair 
in it. 

RUFio \shouting gruffly^ Bring a chair there, some of you, 
for Caesar. 

PTOLEMY [rising shyly to offer his chair] Caesar — 

Ci5:sAR [kind/y~\ No, no, my boy: that is your chair of 
state. Sit down. 

He makes Ptolemy sit down again. Meanwhile Rufio, 
looking about him, sees in the nearest corner an image of the 
god Ra, represented as a seated man with the head of a hawk. 
Before the image is a bronze tripod^ about as large as a three- 
legged stool, with a stick of incense burning on it. Rufio, 
with Roman resourcefulness and indifference to foreign super- 
stitions, promptly seizes the tripod; shakes off the incense; 
blows away the ash; and dumps it down behind Casar, nearly 
in the middle of the hall. 

RUFio. Sit on that, Caesar. 

A shiver runs through the court, followed by a hissing 
whisper i?/' Sacrilege ! 

c^SAR \seating himself \ Now, Pothinus, to business. I 
am badly in want of money. 

BRiTANNUS [disapproving of these informal expressions'] 
My master would say that there is a lawful debt due to 
Rome by Egypt, contracted by the King's deceased father 
to the Triumvirate; and that it is Caesar's duty to his coun- 
try to require immediate payment. 

c^SAR [blandly] Ah, I forgot. I have not made my 
companions known here. Pothinus: this is Britannus, my 
secretary. He is an islander from the western end of the 
world, a day's voyage from Gaul. [Britannus bows stiffly]. 
This gendeman is Rufio, my comrade in arms. [Rufio nods]. 
Pothinus: I want i,6oo talents. 

The courtiers, appalled, murmur loudly, and Theodotus 
and Achillas appeal mutely to one another against so monstrous 
a demand. 



124 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

POTHINUS [aghasf\ Forty million sesterces! Impossible. 
There is not so much money in the King's treasury. 

CiESAR [encouragingly^ Only sixteen hundred talents, 
Pothinus. Why count it in sesterces? A sestertius is only 
worth a loaf of bread. 

POTHINUS. And a talent is worth a racehorse. I say it is 
impossible. We have been at strife here, because the King's 
sister Cleopatra falsely claims his throne. The King's taxes 
have not been collected for a whole year. 

c^sAR. Yes they have, Pothinus. My officers have been 
collecting them all the morning. [Renewed whisper and sen- 
sation y not without some stifled laughter, among the courtiers']. 

RUFio [bluntly^ You must pay, Pothinus. Why waste 
words? You are getting off cheaply enough. 

POTHINUS ^bitterly"] Is it possible that Caesar, the con- 
queror of the world, has time to occupy himself with such a 
trifle as our taxes? 

c^sAR. My friend: taxes are the chief business of a con- 
queror of the world. 

POTHINUS. Then take warning, Caesar. This day, the 
treasures of the temples and the gold of the King's treasury 
shall be sent to the mint to be melted down for our ransom 
in the sight of the people. They shall see us sitting under 
<^?«bare walls and drinking from wooden cups. And their 
wrath be on your head, Caesar, if you force us to this 
sacrilege ! 

ciESAR. Do not fear, Pothinus: the people know how 
well wine tastes in wooden cups. In return for your bounty, 
I will settle this dispute about the throne for you, if you 
will. What say you? 

POTHINUS. If I say no, will that hinder you? 

RUFio [defiantly"] No. 

CJESAR. You say the matter has been at issue for a year, 
Pothinus. May I have ten minutes at it? 

POTHINUS. You will do your pleasure, doubtless. 

ciESAR. Good! But first, let us have Cleopatra here. 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 125 

THEODOTUs. She is not in Alexandria: she is fled into 
Syria. 

c^sAR. I think not. [7^(? Rufi6\ Call Totateeta. 

RUFio \^Calli?ig\ Ho there, Teetatota. 

Ft at ate eta enters the loggia y afid stands arrogantly at the 
top of the steps. 

FTATATEETA. Who pronounces the name of Ftatateeta, 
the Queen's chief nurse? 

CiESAR. Nobody can pronounce it, Tota, except your- 
self. Where is your mistress? 

Cleopatray who is hiding behind Ftatateeta, peeps out at 
theniy laughing. Ceesar rises. 

c^SAR. Will the Queen favor us with her presence for 
a moment? 

CLEOPATRA \^pushing Ftatateeta aside and standing haught- 
ily on the brink of the steps'^ Am I to behave like a Queen? 

c^SAR. Yes. 

Cleopatra immediately comes down to the chair of state; 
seizes Ptolemy and drags him out of his seat; then takes his 
place in the chair. Ftatateeta seats herself on the step of the 
loggia, and sits there, watching the scene with sybilline 
intensity. 

PTOLEMY \mortified, and struggling with his tears'\ 
Caesar: this is how she treats me always. If I am a king 
why is she allowed to take everything from me? 

CLEOPATRA. You are not to be King, you little cry-baby. 
You are to be eaten by the Romans. 

c^SAR [touched by Ptolemy* s distress"] Come here, my 
boy, and stand by me. 

Ptolemy goes over to Ceesar, who, resuming his seat on 
the tripod, takes the boy* s hand to encourage him. Cleopatra, 
furiously jealous, rises and glares at them, 

CLEOPATRA \with flaming cheeks] Take your throne: I 
dont want it. [She flings away from the chair, and 
approaches Ptolemy, who shrinks from her]. Go this instant 
and sit down in your place. 



126 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

Ci^SAR. Go, Ptolemy. Always take a throne when it is 
offered to you. 

RUFio. I hope you will have the good sense to follow 
your own advice when we return to Rome, Caesar. 

Ptolemy slowly goes back to the throne^ giving Cleopatra 
a wide berths in evident fear of her hands. She takes his 
place beside Casar. 

c^SAR. Pothinus — 

CLEOPATRA [interrupting him] Are you not going to 
speak to me? 

CiESAR. Be quiet. Open your mouth again before I give 
you leave; and you shall be eaten. 

CLEOPATRA. I am not afraid. A queen must not be 
afraid. Eat my husband there, if you like: he is afraid. 

c^sAR [starting] Your husband! What do you mean? 

CLEOPATRA [pointing to Ptolemy] That little thing. 

The two Romans and the Briton stare at one another in 
amazement. 

THEODOTUs. CaEsar: you are a stranger here, and not 
conversant with our laws. The kings and queens of Egypt 
may not marry except with their own royal blood. Ptolemy 
and Cleopatra are born king and consort just as they are 
born brother and sister. 

BRiTANNUs [shockcd] Caesar: this is not proper. 

THEODOTUS [outraged] How! 

CiESAR [recovering his self-possession] Pardon him, Theo- 
dotus: he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his 
tribe and island are the laws of nature. 

BRITANNUS. On the contrary, Caesar, it is these Egyptians 
who are barbarians; and you do wrong to encourage them. 
I sav it is a scandal. 

CiESAR. Scandal or not, my friend, it opens the gate of 
peace. [He rises and addresses Pothinus serious ly^ Pothinus: 
hear what I propose. 

RUFIO. Hear Czesar there. 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 127 

c^SAR. Ptolemy and Cleopatra shall reign jointly in 
Egypt. 

ACHILLAS. What of the King's younger brother and 
Cleopatra's younger sister? 

RUFio \explai?mig\ There is another little Ptolemy, 
Caesar: so they tell me. 

CiESAR. Well, the little Ptolemy can marry the other 
sister; and we will make them both a present of Cyprus. 

POTHiNUs [^impatiently'l Cyprus is of no use to anybody. 

CiESAR. No matter: you shall have it for the sake of 
peace. 

BRiTANNUs \uti c OTIS CIO usiy anticipating a later statesman^ 
Peace with honor, Pothinus. 

POTHINUS [mutinously^ Csesar: be honest. The money 
you demand is the price of our freedom. Take it; and leave 
us to settle our own affairs. 

THE BOLDER COURTIERS [encouragcd by Pothinus' s tone 
and C^sar' s guietness'\ Yes, yes. Egypt for the Egyptians! 

The conference now becomes an altercation, the Egyptians 
becoming more and more heated. Ccssar remains unrufled; 
but Rujio grows fiercer and doggeder, and Brit annus haughtily 
indignant, 

RUFIO [contemptuously'^ Egypt for the Egyptians! Do 
you forget that there is a Roman army of occupation here, 
left by Aulus Gabinius when he set up your toy king for 
you ? 

ACHILLAS [suddenly asserting himself^ And now under my 
command. / am the Roman general here, Cssar. 

c^SAR [tickled by the humor of the situation'] And also 
the Egyptian general, eh.? 

POTHINUS [triumphantly] That is so, C^sar. 

c^SAR [jo Achillas] So you can make war on the 
Egyptians in the name of Rome, and on the Romans — on 
me, if necessary — in the name of Egypt? 

ACHILLAS. That is so, Ccesar. 



128 Three Plays for Puritans Act li 

c^SAR. And which side are you on at present, if I may 
presume to ask, general? 

ACHILLAS. On the side of the right and of the gods, 

CiESAR. Hm! How many men have you? 

ACHILLAS. That will appear when I take the field. 

RUFio \jruculently\ Are your men Romans? If not, it 
matters not how many there are, provided you are no 
stronger than 500 to ten. 

poTHiNUs. It is useless to try to bluff us, Rufio. Caesar 
has been defeated before and may be defeated again. A few 
weeks ago Caesar was flying for his life before Pompey: a 
few months hence he may be flying for his life before Cato 
and Juba of Numidia, the African King. 

ACHILLAS [following up Pothinus^s speech menacingly^ 
What can you do with 4,000 men? 

THEODOTus [following up Achillas* s speech with a raucous 
squeak^ And without money? Away with you. 

ALL THE COURTIERS [shouting fiercely and Crowding towards 
Caesar] Away with you. Egypt for the Egyptians! Begone. 

Rufo bites his beard ^ too angry to speak, desar sits as 
comfortably as if he zvere at breakfast, and the cat were 
clamoring for a piece of Finna?i-haddie. 

CLEOPATRA. Why do you let them talk to you like that, 
Caesar? Are you afraid? 

CiESAR. Why, my dear, what they say is quite true. 

CLEOPATRA. But if you go away, I shall not be Queen. 

c^SAR. I shall not go away until you are Queen. 

POTHINUS. Achillas: if you are riot a fool, you will take 
that girl whilst she is under your hand. 

RUFio ^daring them~\ Why not take Caesar as well, 
Achillas? 

POTHINUS [retorting the defiance with interest^ Well said, 
Rufio. Why not? 

RUFio. Try, Achillas. \Calling\ Guard there. 

The loggia immediately fills with C^sar^s soldiers, who 
stand, sword in hand, at the top of the steps, waiting the 



Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 129 

word to charge from their centurion, who carries a cudgel. 
For a moment the Egyptians face them proudly, then they 
retire sullenly to their former places, 

BRiTANNUs. You are Csesar's prisoners, all of you. 

CiESAR \benevolently'\ Oh no, no, no. By no means. 
Caesar's guests, gentlemen. 

CLEOPATRA. Wont vou cut their heads off? 

CJESAR. What! Cut off your brother's head? 

CLEOPATRA. Why not? He would cut ofFmine, if he got 
the chance. Wouldnt you, Ptolemy? 

PTOLEMY \^pale and obstinate'^ I would. I will, too, 
when I grow up. 

Cleopatra is rent by a struggle between her newly- 
acquired dignity as a queen, and a strong impulse to put out 
her tongue at him . She takes no part in the scene which fol- 
lows, but watches it with curiosity and wonder, fidgeting 
with the restlessness of a child, and sitting down on Ceesar* s 
tripod when he rises. 

poTHiNus. Cassar: if you attempt to detain us — 

RUFio. He will succeed, Egyptian: make up your mind 
to that. We hold the palace, the beach, and the eastern 
harbor. The road to Rome is open; and you shall travel it 
if CjEsar chooses. 

Ci5:sAR \^courteously'\ I could do no less, Pothinus, to 
secure the retreat of my own soldiers. I am accountable 
for every life among them. But you are free to go. So are 
all here, and in the palace. 

RUFIO \aghast at this clemency^ What! Renegades and 
all? 

c^SAR [softening the expression!^ Roman army of occupa- 
tion and all, Rufio. 

POTHINUS [desperately'] Then I make a last appeal to 
Csesar's justice. I shall call a witness to prove that but for 
us, the Roman army of occupation, led by the greatest 
soldier in the world, would now have Caesar at its mercy. 
[Calling through the loggia"] Ho, there, Lucius Septimius 



130 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

\^Ctesar starts, deeply moved]: if my voice can reach you, 
come forth and testify before Csesar. 

CJESAR [shrifiking] No, no. 

THEODOTus. Yes, I Say. Let the military tribune bear 
witness. 

Lucius Septirniusy a clean shaven, trim athlete of about 
40, with symmetrical features, resolute mouth, and handsome, 
thin Roman nose, in the dress of a Roman officer, comes in 
through the loggia and confronts Ccssar, who hides his face 
with his robe for a moment; then, mastering himself, drops 
it, and confronts the tribune with dignity. 

POTHINUS. Bear witness, Lucius Septimius. Caesar came 
hither in pursuit of his foe. Did we shelter his foe.? 

LUCIUS. As Pompey's foot touched the Egyptian shore, 
his head fell by the stroke of my sword. 

THEODOTUS \zvith vipcrish relish'] Under the eyes of his 
wife and child! Remember that, C^sar! They saw it from 
the ship he had just left. We have given you a full and 
sweet measure of vengeance. 

c^sAR [with horror] Vengeance! 

POTHINUS. Our first gift to you, as your galley came 
into the roadstead, was the head of your rival for the empire 
of the world. Bear witness, Lucius Septimius: is it not so? 

LUCIUS. It is so. With this hand, that slew Pompey, I 
placed his head at the feet of Caesar. 

c^SAR. Murderer! So would you have slain Caesar, had 
Pompey been victorious at Pharsalia. 

LUCIUS. Woe to the vanquished, Caesar! When I served 
Pompey, I slew as good men as he, only because he con- 
quered them. His turn came at last. 

THEODOTUS [fattcringly] The deed was not yours, 
Caesar, but ours — nay, mine; for it was done by my coun- 
sel. Thanks to us, you keep your reputation for clemency, 
and have your vengeance too. 

Ci^SAR. Vengeance! Vengeance!! Oh, if 1 could stoop 
to vengeance, what would I not exact from you as the price 



Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 131 

of this murdered man's blood? yThey shrink back, appalled 
and disconcerted^ Was he not my son-in-law, my ancient 
friend, for 20 years the master of great Rome, for 30 years 
the compeller of victory? Did not I, as a Roman, share his 
glory? Was the Fate that forced us to fight for the mastery 
of the world, of our making? Am I Julius Caesar, or am I 
a wolf, that you fling to me the grey head of the old soldier, 
the laurelled conqueror, the mighty Roman, treacherously 
struck down by this callous ruffian, and then claim my 
gratitude for it! \To Lucius Septimius'] Begone: you fill me 
with horror. 

LUCIUS \_cold and undaunted'^ Pshaw ! you have seen sev- 
ered heads before, Caesar, and severed right hand? too, I 
think; some thousands of them, in Gaul, after you van- 
quished Vercingetorix. Did you spare him, with all your 
clemency? Was that vengeance? 

CiESAR. No, by the gods! would that it had been! 
Vengeance at least is human. No, I say: those severed right 
hands, and the brave Vercingetorix basely strangled in a 
vault beneath the Capitol, were [with shuddering satire^ a 
wise severity, a necessary protection to the commonwealth, 
a duty of statesmanship — follies and fictions ten times 
bloodier than honest vengeance! What a fool was I then! 
To think that men's lives should be at the mercy of such 
fools! [Humbly^ Lucius Septimius, pardon me: why should 
the slayer of Vercingetorix rebuke the slayer of Pompey? 
You are free to go with the rest. Or stay if you will: I will 
find a place for you in my service. 

LUCIUS. The odds are against you, Cssar. I go. [He 
turns to go out through the loggia^. 

RUFio [full of wrath at seeing his prey escaping^ That 
means that he is a Republican. 

LUCIUS [turning defiantly on the loggia steps'] And what 
are you? 

RUFIO. A Caesarian, like all Caesar's soldiers. 

c^SAR [courteously'] Lucius: believe me, Caesar is no 



132 Three Plays for Puritans Act 1 1 

Caesarian. Were Rome a true republic, then were Caesar 
the first of Republicans. But you have made your choice. 
Farewell. 

LUCIUS. Farewell. Come, Achillas, whilst there is yet 
time. 

Caesar y seeing that Rufio' s temper threatens to get the 
worse of him, puts his hand on his shoulder and hrings him 
down the hall out of harm* s way, Britannus accompanying 
them and posting himself on Casar^ s right hand. This move- 
ment brings the three in a little group to the place occupied 
by Achillas, who moves haughtily away and joins Theodotus 
on the other side. Lucius Septimius goes out through the sol- 
diers in the loggia. Pothinus, Theodotus and Achillas follow 
him with the courtiers, very mistrustful of the soldiers, who 
close up in their rear and go out after them, keeping them 
moving without much ceremony. The King is left in his chair, 
piteous, obstinate, with twitching face and fingers. During 
these movements Rufio maintains an energetic grumbling, as 
follows: — 

RUFIO \as Lucius departs'^ Do you suppose he would let 
us go if he had our heads in his hands? 

c^SAR. I have no right to suppose that his ways are any 
baser than mine. 

RUFIO. Psha! 

c^SAR. Rufio: if I take Lucius Septimius for my model, 
and become exactly like him, ceasing to be Caesar, will you 
serve me still? 

BRITANNUS. CaEsar: this is not good sense. Your duty to 
Rome demands that her enemies should be prevented from 
doing further mischief. \^Ccesar, whose delight in the moral 
eye-to-business of his British secretary is inexhaustible, smiles 
indulgent ly~\ . 

RUFIO. It is no use talking to him, Britannus: you may 
save your breath to cool your porridge. But mark this, 
Caesar. Clemency is very well for you; but what is it for 
your soldiers, who have to fight to-morrow the men you 



Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 133 

spared yesterday? You may give what orders you please; 
but I tell you that your next victory will be a massacre, 
thanks to your irlemency. /, for one, will take no prisoners. 
I will kill my enemies in the field; and then you can preach 
as much clemency as you please: I shall never have to fight 
them again. And now, with your leave, I will see these 
gentry off the premises. [He turns to go\. 

CJESAR \turni71g also and seeing Ptolemy] What! have 
they left the boy alone! Oh shame, shame! 

RUFio \jaking Ptolemf s hand and making him rise] 
Come, your majesty! 

PTOLEMY \to Casar, drawing away his hand from Rufio] 
Is he turning me out of my palace? 

RUFIO [grimly] You are welcome to stay if you wish. 

CiESAR [kindly] Go, my boy. I will not harm you; but 
you will be safer away, among your friends. Here you are 
in the lion's mouth. 

PTOLEMY [turning to go] It is not the lion I fear, but 
[looking at Rufio] the jackal. [He goes cut through the 
loggia] . 

c^SAR [laughing approvi?igly] Brave boy ! 

CLEOPATRA [jealous of Ci^sar's approbation, calling after 
Ptolemy] Little silly. You think that very clever. 

c-^SAR. Britannus: attend the King. Give him in charge 
to that Pothinus fellow. [Britannus goes out after Ptolemy]. 

RUFIO [pointing to Cleopatra] And this piece of goods? 
What is to be done with her? However, I suppose I may 
leave that to you. [He goes out through the loggia], 

CLEOPATRA [flushing suddenly and turning on Ccesar'] 
Did you mean me to go with the rest? 

CJESAR [a little preoccupied, goes with a sigh to Ptolemy* s 
chair, whilst she waits for his answer with red cheeks and 
clenched fists] You are free to do just as you please, Cleo- 
patra. 

CLEOPATRA. Then you do not care whether I stay or not? 

CiESAR [smiling] Of course I had rather you stayed. 



134 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

CLEOPATRA. Much, iTi u c h rathcF? 

CiESAR \jiodding\ Much, much rather. 

CLEOPATRA. Then I consent to stay, because I am asked. 
But I do not want to, mind. 

CiESAR. That is quite understood. [^Calling] Totateeta. 

Ftatateetdy still seated, turns her eyes on him with a 
sinister expression, but does not move, 

CLEOPATRA \with a splutter of laughter~\ Her name is not 
Totateeta: it is Ftatateeta. [C^///;/^] Ftatateeta. \Ftatateeta 
instantly rises and comes to Cleopatra\ . 

c^SAR ^stumbling over the name^ Tfatafeeta will forgive 
the erring tongue of a Roman. Tota: the Queen will hold 
her State here in Alexandria. Engage women to attend 
upon her; and do all that is needful. 

FTATATEETA. Am I then the mistress of the Queen's 
household.? 

CLEOPATRA \sharply'\ No: / am the mistress of the 
Queen's household. Go and do as you are told, or I will 
have you thrown into the Nile this very afternoon, to poison 
the poor crocodiles. 

CvESAR [shocked^ Oh no, no. 

CLEOPATRA. Oh ycs, yes. You are very sentimental, 
Caesar; but you are clever; and if you do as I tell you, you 
will soon learn to govern. 

Ccesar, quite dumbfounded by this impertinence, turns in 
his chair and stares at her, 

Ftatateeta, smiling grimly, and showing a splendid set of 
teeth, goes, leaving them alone together. 

c^sAR. Cleopatra: I really think I must eat you, after all. 

CLEOPATRA [kneeling beside him and looking at him with 
eager interest, half real, half affected to shew how intelligent 
she //] You must not talk to me now as if I were a child. 

CESAR. You have been growing up since the sphinx 
introduced us the other night; and you think you know 
more than I do already. 

CLEOPATRA [taken down, and anxious to justify herself \ 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 135 

No: that would be very silly of me: of course I know that. 
But — \judde?tly^ are you angry with me? 

C-iESAR. No. 

CLEOPATRA \^only half believing him~\ Then why are you 
so thoughtful.'' 

c-^SAR \rising\ I have work to do, Cleopatra. 

CLEOPATRA [drazvtng back'] Work! \^Offe?ided~\ You are 
tired of talking to me; and that is your excuse to get away 
from me. 

CiESAR \jitting down again to appease her\ Well, well: 
another minute. But then — work! 

CLEOPATRA. Work! what nonsense! You must remember 
that you are a king now: I have made you one. Kings dont 
work. 

c^sAR. Oh! Who told you that, little kitten? Eh? 

CLEOPATRA. My father was King of Egypt; and he never 
worked. But he was a great king, and cut off my sister's 
head because she rebelled against him and took the throne 
from him. 

c^SAR. Well; and how did he get his throne back 
again? 

CLEOPATRA \eagerly; her eyes lighting up'] I will tell you. 
A beautiful young man, with strong round arms, came over 
the desert with many horsemen, and slew my sister's hus- 
band and gave my father back his throne. [^Wistfully] I 
was only twelve then. Oh, I wish he would come 
again, now that I am a queen. I would make him my 
husband. 

cmshK. It might be managed, perhaps; for it was I who 
sent that beautiful young man to help your father. 

CLEOPATRA [enraptured] You know him! 

c^SAR [nodding] I do. 

CLEOPATRA. Has he comc with you? [Ccesar shakes his 
head: she is cruelly disappointed]. Oh, I wish he had, I wish 
he had. If only I were a little older; so that he might not 
think me a mere kitten, as you do! But perhaps that is 



136 Three Plays for Puritans Act ll 

because you are old. He is many, many years younger than 
you, is he not? 

c^SAR [/7J- if swallowing a pill\ He is somewhat younger. 

CLEOPATRA. Would he be my husband, do you think, if 
I asked him? 

c^SAR. Very likely. 

CLEOPATRA. But I should not like to ask him. Could you 
not persuade him to ask me — without knowing that I 
wanted him to? 

CiESAR \touched by her innocence of the beautiful young 
man* s character^ My poor child! 

CLEOPATRA. Why do you say that as if you were sorry 
for me? Does he love anyone else? 

CiESAR. I am afraid so. 

CLEOPATRA \tearfullj\ Then I shall not be his first love. 

c^SAR. Not quite the first. He is greatly admired by 
women. 

CLEOPATRA. I wish 1 could be the first. But if he loves 
me, I will make him kill all the rest. Tell me: is he still 
beautiful? Do his strong round arms shine in the sun like 
marble? 

c^SAR. He is in excellent condition — considering how 
much he eats and drinks. 

CLEOPATRA. Oh, you must not say common, earthly 
things about him; for I love him. He is a god. 

c-ffiSAR. He is a great captain of horsemen, and swifter 
of foot than any other Roman. 

CLEOPATRA. What is his real name? 

CiESAR [/»az2;/^^] His real name? 

CLEOPATRA. Ycs. I always call him Horus, because 
Horus is the most beautiful of our gods. But I want to know 
his real name. 

c^SAR. His name is Mark Antony. 

CLEOPATRA \musically^ Mark Antony, Mark Antony, 
Mark Antony! What a beautiful name! \She throws her 
arms round Casar* s neck\. Oh, how I love you for sending 



Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 137 

him to help my father! Did you love my father very 
much? 

c^SAR. No, my child; but your father, as you say, 
never worked. I always work. So when he lost his crown 
he had to promise me 16,000 talents to get it back for him. 

CLEOPATRA. Did he ever pay you? 

ciESAR. Not in full. 

CLEOPATRA. He was quite right: it was too dear. The 
whole world is not worth 16,000 talents. 

Ci¥:sAR. That is perhaps true, Cleopatra. Those Egyp- 
tians who work paid as much of it as he could drag from 
them. The rest is still due. But as I most likely shall not 
get it, I must go back to my work. So you must run away 
for a little and send my secretary to me. 

CLEOPATRA [^coaxwg'j No: I want to stay and hear you 
talk about Mark Antony. 

c.^sAR. But if I do not get to work, Pothinus and the 
rest of them will cut us off from the harbor; and then the 
way from Rome will be blocked. 

CLEOPATRA. No matter: I dont want you to go back to 
Rome. 

CiESAR. But you want Mark Antony to come from it. 

CLEOPATRA \jpri?igtng up] Oh yes, yes, yes: I forgot. 
Go quickly and work, Caesar; and keep the way over the 
sea open for my Mark Antony. \^She runs out through the 
loggia, kissing her hand to Mark Antony across the sea] . 

Ci^SAR \_going briskly up the middle of the hall to the 
loggia steps] Ho, Britannus. \He is startled by the entry of 
a wounded Roman soldier, who confronts him from the upper 
step]. What now? 

SOLDIER '^pointing to his bandaged head^ This, Caesar; 
and two of my comrades killed in the market place. 

CiESAR ^quiety but attending] Ay. Why? 

SOLDIER. There is an army come to Alexandria, calling 
itself the Roman army. 

c^SAR. The Roman army of occupation. Ay? 



ijS Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

SOLDIER. Commanded by one Achillas. 

Ci^SAR. Well.? 

SOLDIER. The citizens rose against us when the army 
entered the gates. I was with two others in the market 
place when the news came. They set upon us. I cut my 
way out; and here I am. 

CiESAR. Good. I am glad to see you alive. \_RuJio enters 
the loggia hastilyy passing behind the soldier to look out 
through one of the arches at the quay beneath^. Rufio, we 
are besieged. 

RUFIO. What! Already? 

CiESAR. Now or to-morrow: what does it matter? We 
shall be besieged. 

Britannus runs in. 

BRiTANNUS. Caesar — 

c^SAR [anticipating him] Yes: I know. [Rujio and 
Britannus come down the hall from the loggia at opposite sides, 
past Casary who waits for a moment near the step to say to 
the soldier] Comrade: give the word to turn out on the 
beach and stand by the boats. Get your wound attended 
to. Go. [The soldier hurries out. Ccesar comes down the 
hall between Rufio and Britannus] Rufio: we have some 
ships in the west harbor. Burn them. 

RUFIO [staring] Burn them!! 

C-SSAR. Take every boat we have in the east harbor, 
and seize the Pharos — that island with the lighthouse. 
Leave half our men behind to hold the beach and the quay 
outside this palace: that is the way home. 

RUFIO [disapproving strongly] Are we to give up the city? 

CiESAR. We have not got it, Rufio. This palace we 
have; and — what is that building next door? 

RUFIO. The theatre. 

c^SAR. We will have that too: it commands the strand. 
For the rest, Egypt for the Egyptians! 

RUFIO. Well, you know best, I suppose. Is that all? 

CJESAR. That is all. Are those ships burnt yet? 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 139 

RUFio. Be easy: I shall waste no more time. [^He runs 
out\. 

BRIT ANNUS. Cassar: Pothinus demands speech of you. 
In my opinion he needs a lesson. His manner is most 
insolent. 

c^sAR. Where is he? 

BRiTANNUS. He waits without. 

c^SAR. Ho there! admit Pothinus. 

Pothifius appears in the loggia, and comes down the hall 
very haughtily to Casar'* s left hand, 

c^SAR. Well, Pothinus? 

POTHINUS. I have brought you our ultimatum, Csesar. 

CJESAR. Ultimatum! The door was open: you should 
have gone out through it before you declared war. You are 
my prisoner now. \He goes to the chair and loosens his togd\. 

POTHINUS \jcornfullj\ I your prisoner! Do you know 
that you are in Alexandria, and that King Ptolemy, with 
an army outnumbering your little troop a hundred to one, 
is in possession of Alexandria? 

c^sAR Unconcernedly taking off his toga and throwing it 
on the chair~\ Well, my friend, get out if you can. And 
tell your friends not to kill any more Romans in the market 
place. Otherwise my soldiers, who do not share my cele- 
brated clemency, will probably kill you. Britannus: pass 
the word to the guard; and fetch my armor. [^Britannus 
runs out. Rufio returns'^. Well? 

RUFIO \_pointing from the loggia to a cloud of smoke 
drifting over the harbor~\ See there! \Pothinus runs eagerly 
up the steps to look out'\ . 

Ci^SAR. What, ablaze already! Impossible! 

RUFIO. Yes, five good ships, and a barge laden with oil 
grappled to each. But it is not my doing: the Egyptians 
have saved me the trouble. They have captured the west 
harbor. 

c^sAR \anxiously'\ And the east harbor? The lighthouse, 
Rufio? 



140 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

RUFio [zvjtb a sudden splutter of raging ill usage ^ coming 
down to Ccesar and scolding hini\ Can I embark a legion in 
five minutes? The first cohort is already on the beach. We 
can do no more. If you want faster work, come and do it 
yourself? 

CiESAR \soothing him\ Good, good. Patience, Rufio, 
patience. 

RUFIO. Patience! Who is impatient here, you or I? 
Would I be here, if I could not oversee them from that 
balcony? 

c^sAR. Forgive me, Rufio; and \^anxiousl;f\ hurry them 
as much as — 

He is interrupted by an outcry as of an old man in the 
extremity of misfortune. It draws near rapidly; and Theodotus 
rushes in, tearing his hair, and squeaking the most lamentable 
exclamations, Rufio steps back to stare at him, amazed at his 
frantic condition. Pothinus turns to listen. 

THEODOTUS [on the stepSy with uplifted arms^ Horror 
unspeakable! Woe, alas! Help! 

RUFIO. What now? 

CiESAR \_fr owning'] Who is slain? 

THEODOTUS. Slain! Oh, worse than the death of ten 
thousand men! Loss irreparable to mankind! 

RUFIO. What has happened, man? 

THEODOTUS [rushing down the hall between them"] The 
fire has spread from your ships. The first of the seven won- 
ders of the world perishes. The library of Alexandria is in 
flames. 

RUFIO. Psha! \_Quite relieved, he goes up to the loggia 
and watches the preparations of the troops on the beach']. 

CiESAR. Is that all? 

THEODOTUS [utiable to believe his senses'] All! Caesar: will 
you go down to posterity as a barbarous soldier too ignorant 
to know the value of books? 

c^sAR. Theodotus: I am an author myself; and I tell 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 141 

you it is better that the Egyptians should live their lives 
than dream them away with the help of books. 

THEODOTUS \_hieelingy with genuine literary emotion: the 
passion of the pedant} Caesar: once in ten generations of 
men, the world gains an immortal book. 

c^SAR [inflexible'] If it did not flatter mankind, the 
common executioner would burn it. 

THEODOTUS. Without history, death would lay you beside 
your meanest soldier. 

CiESAR. Death will do that in any case. I ask no better 
grave. 

THEODOTUS. What is burning there is the memory of 
mankind. 

CiESAR. A shameful memory. Let it burn. 

THEODOTUS [zvUdly] Will you destroy the past? 

CiESAR. Ay, and build the future with its ruins. \Theo- 
dotusy in despair y strikes himself on the temples zvith his fists]. 
But harken, Theodotus, teacher of kings: you who valued 
Pompey's head no more than a shepherd values an onion, 
and who now kneel to me, with tears in your old eyes, to 
plead for a few sheepskins scrawled with errors. I cannot 
spare you a man or a bucket of water just now; but you 
shall pass freely out of the palace. Now, away with you to 
Achillas; and borrow his legions to put out the fire. \He 
hurries him to the steps], 

poTHiNUs [significantly] You understand, Theodotus: I 
remain a prisoner. 

THEODOTUS. A pHsoner! 

CiESAR. Will you stay to talk whilst the memory of 
mankind is burning? [Calling through the loggia] Ho there! 
Pass Theodotus out. [To Theodotus] Away with you. 

THEODOTUS. [To Pothinus] I must go to save the library. 
[He hurries out], 

c^SAR. Follow him to the gate, Pothinus. Bid him urge 
your people to kill no more of my soldiers, for your sake. 



1^1 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

POTHINUS. My life will cost you dear if you take it, 
Caesar. [He goes out after Theodotus]. 

Rujioy absorbed in watching the embarkationy does not 
notice the departure of the two Egyptians. 

RUFio [shouting from the loggia to the beach] All ready, 
there? 

A CENTURION [from below~\ All ready. We wait for 
Caesar. 

c^sAR. Tell them C^sar is coming — the rogues! 
YCalling']^ Britannicus. [This magniloquent version of his 
secretary' s name is one of Casar'' s jokes. In later years it 
would have meant, quite seriously and officially. Conqueror of 
Britain] . 

RUFIO [calling dow?i\ Push off, all except the longboat. 
Stand by it to embark, Caesar's guard there. \He leaves the 
balcony and comes down into the hall'\. Where are those 
Egyptians? Is this more clemency? Have you let them go? 

c<ESAR [chuckling] I have let Theodotus go to save the 
library. We must respect literature, Rufio. 

RUFIO [raging] Folly on folly's head! I believe if you 
could bring back all the dead of Spain, Gaul and Thessaly 
to life, you would do it that we might have the trouble of 
fighting them over again. 

CiESAR. Might not the gods destroy the world if their 
only thought were to be at peace next year? [Rufio, out of 
all patience, turns away in anger. Casar suddenly grips his 
sleeve, and adds slyly in his ear~] Besides, my friend: every 
Egyptian we imprison means imprisoning two Roman sol- 
diers to guard him. Eh? 

RUFIO. Agh! I might have known there was some fox's 
trick behind your fine talking. [He gets away from desar 
with an ill-humored shrug, and goes to the balcony for another 
look at the preparations; finally goes out\ 

CiESAR. Is Britannus asleep? I sent him for my armor 
an hour ago. [Calling] Britannicus, thou British islander. 
Britannicus ! 



Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 143 

Cleopatra runs in through the loggia with desar^ s helmet 
and sword, snatched from Britannus, who follows her with a 
cuirass and greaves. They come down to Casar, she to his 
left handy Britannus to his right. 

CLEOPATRA. I am going to dress you, Csesar. Sit down. 
\He obeys\ These Roman helmets are so becoming! \She 
takes off his wreath^ Oh! \She bursts out laughing at 
him\ 

CiESAR. What are you laughing at? 

CLEOPATRA. Yourc bald \beginning with a big B, and 
ending with a splutter"^ . 

CiESAR [almost annoyed^ Cleopatra! \^He rises, for the 
convenience of Britannus, who puts the cuirass on him^. 

CLEOPATRA. So that is why you wear the wreath — to 
hide it. 

BRITANNUS. Pcacc, Egyptian: they are the bays of the 
conqueror. [He buckle the cuirass'] . 

CLEOPATRA. Peace, thou: islander! [To C^sar~\ You 
should rub your head with strong spirits of sugar, Caesar. 
That will make it grow. 

CiESAR [with a wry face] Cleopatra: do you like to be 
reminded that you are very young? 

CLEOPATRA [pOUting] No. 

c^SAR [sitting down again, and setting out his leg for 
Britannus, who kneels to put on his greaves] Neither do I 
like to be reminded that I am — middle aged. Let me give 
you ten of my superfluous years. That will make you 26, 
and leave me only — no matter. Is it a bargain? 

CLEOPATRA. Agreed. 26, mind. [She puts the helmet on 
him]. Oh! How nice! You look only about 50 in it! 

BRITANNUS [looking up Severely at Cleopatra^ You must 
not speak in this manner to Csesar. 

CLEOPATRA. Is it truc that when Caesar caught you on 
that island, you were painted all over blue? 

BRITANNUS. Blue is the color worn by all Britons of 
good standing. In war we stain our bodies blue; so that 



144 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

though our enemies may strip us of our clothes and our 
lives, they cannot strip us of our respectability. [//> 
rises']. 

CLEOPATRA [zotth C^sar^ s sword] Let me hang this on. 
Now you look splendid. Have they made any statues of 
you in Rome? 

CiESAR. Yes, many statues. 

CLEOPATRA. You must scnd for one and give it to me. 

RUFio \_coming back into the loggia^ more impatient than 
ever] Now Csesar: have you done talking? The moment 
your foot is aboard there will be no holding our men back: 
the boats will race one another for the lighthouse. 

c^SAR [drawing his sword and trying the edge] Is this 
well set to-day, Britannicus? At Pharsalia it was as blunt as 
a barrel-hoop. 

BRiTANNUs. It will spHt One of the Egyptian's hairs 
to-day, Cassar. I have set it myself. 

CLEOPATRA \_suddenly throwing her arms in terror round 
Casar] Oh, you are not really going into battle to be 
killed? 

c^SAR. No, Cleopatra. No man goes to battle to be 
killed. 

CLEOPATRA. But they do get killed. My sister's husband 
was killed in battle. You must not go. Let him go [pointing 
to Rufio. They all laugh at her]. Oh please, please dont 
go-. What will happen to me if you never come back? 

CiESAR [gravely] Are you afraid? 

CLEOPATRA \^shr inking] No. 

CiESAR [with quiet authority] Go to the balcony; and 
you shall see us take the Pharos. You must learn to look on 
battles. Go. [She goes, downcast, and looks out from the 
balcony]'. That is well. Now, Rufio. March. 

CLEOPATRA [suddenly clapping her hands] Oh, you will 
not be able to go ! 

CiESAR. Why? What now? 

CLEOPATRA. They are drying up the harbor with 



Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 145 

buckets — a multitude of soldiers — over there \^pointing out 
across the sea to her left'] — they are dipping up the water. 

R.UF10 [hastening to Iook\ It is true. The Egyptian army ! 
Crawling over the edge of the west harbor like locusts. 
[JVith sudden anger he strides down to Ccesar]. This is 
your accursed clemency, Caesar. Theodotus has brought 
them. 

c^SAR [delighted at his own cleverness] I meant him to, 
Rufio. They have come to put out the fire. The library 
will keep them busy whilst we seize the lighthouse. Eh? 
\He rushes out buoyantly through the loggia y followed by 
Britannus^ . 

RUFIO [disgustedly] More foxing! Agh! [He rushes off, 
A shout from the soldiers announces the appearance of Casar 
below] . 

CENTURION [below] All aboard. Give way there. 
[Another shout], 

CLEOPATRA [waving her scarf through the loggia arch] 
Goodbye, goodbye, dear Caesar. Come back safe. 
Goodbye! 



m 



ACT III 

The edge of the quay in front of the palace y looking out 
west over the east harbor of Alexandria to Pharos island ^ 
just off the end of which, and connected with it by a narrow 
mole, is the famous lighthouse, a gigantic square tower of 
white marble diminishing in sixe storey by storey to the top, 
on which stands a cresset beacon. The island is joined to the 
main land by the Heptastadium, a great mole or causeway 
five miles long bounding the harbor on the south. 

In the middle of the quay a Roman sentinel stands on 
guard, pilum in hand, looking out to the lighthouse with 
strained attention, his left hand shading his eyes. The pilum 
is a stout wooden shaft /\.y^ feet long, with an iron spit about 
three feet long fixed in it. The sentinel is so absorbed that 
he does not notice the approach from the north end of the quay 
of four Egyptian market porters carrying rolls of carpet, pre- 
ceded by Ft at ate eta and Apollo dor us the Sicilian. Apollo dor us 
is a dashing young man of about 24, handsome and debonair, 
dressed with deliberate cestheticism in the most delicate pur- 
ples and dove greys, with ornaments of bronze, oxydized sil- 
ver, and stones of jade and agate. His sword, designed as 
carefully as a medieval cross, has a blued blade showing 
through an openwork scabbard of purple leather and filagree. 
The porters, conducted by Ftatateeta, pass along the quay 
behind the sentinel to the steps of the palace, where they put 
down their bales and squat on the ground. Apollodorus does 
not pass along with them: he halts, amused by the preoccupa- 
tion of the sentinel. 



146 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 147 

APOLLODORUS [calling to the sentinel^ Who goes there, 
eh? 

SENTINEL \starting violently and turning with his pilum at 
the charge, revealing himself as a small, wiry, sandy-haired, 
conscientious young man with an elderly face~\ Whats this? 
Stand. Who are you? 

APOLLODORUS. I am Apollodorus the Sicilian. Why, man, 
what are you dreaming of? Since I came through the lines 
beyond the theatre there, I have brought my caravan past 
three sentinels, all so busy staring at the lighthouse that not 
one of them challenged me. Is this Roman discipline? 

SENTINEL. We are not here to watch the land but the 
sea. CzEsar has just landed on the Pharos. \_Looking at 
Ftatateeta] What have you here? Who is this piece of 
Egyptian crockery? 

FTATATEETA. Apollodorus: rcbukc this Roman dog; and 
bid him bridle his tongue in the presence of Ftatateeta, the 
mistress of the Queen's household. 

APOLLODORUS. My friend: this is a great lady, who 
stands high with Caesar. 

SENTINEL [not at all impressed, pointing to the carpets'^ 
And what is all this truck? 

APOLLODORUS. Carpcts for the furnishing of the Queen's 
apartments in the palace. I have picked them from the best 
carpets in the world; and the Queen shall choose the best of 
my choosing. 

SENTINEL. So you are the carpet merchant? 

APOLLODORUS \hurt\ My friend: I am a patrician. 

SENTINEL. A patrician! A patrician keeping a shop 
instead of following arms ! 

APOLLODORUS. I do not keep a shop. Mine is a temple 
of the arts. I am a worshipper of beauty. My calling is to 
choose beautiful things for beautiful Queens. My motto is 
Art for Art's sake. 

SENTINEL. That is not the password. 

APOLLODORUS. It is a universal password. 



148 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

SENTINEL. I know nothing about universal passwords. 
Either give me the password for the day or get back to your 
shop. 

Ftatateetay roused by his hostile tone, steals towards the edge 
of the quay with the step of a panther ^ and gets behind him, 

APOLLODORUs. How if I do neither? 

SENTINEL. Then I will drive this pilum through you. 

APOLLODORUS, At your service, my friend. \He draws 
his sword t and springs to his guard with unruffled grace~^ . 

FTATATEETA [suddenly seizing the sentineP s arms from 
behind"^ Thrust your knife into the dog's throat, Apollo- 
dorus. \The chivalrous Apollodorus laughingly shakes his 
head; breaks ground away from the sentinel towards the 
palace; and lowers his poini\. 

SENTINEL [struggling vainly^ Curse on you! Let me go. 
Help ho! 

FTATATEETA [lifting him from the ground^ Stab the little 
Roman reptile. Spit him on your sword. 

A couple of Roman soldier Sy with a centurion y come running 
along the edge of the quay from the north end. They rescue 
their comrade, and throw off Ftatateetay who is sent reeling 
away on the left hand of the sentinel. 

CENTURION \an unattractive man of fifty y short in his 
speech and manners y with a vine wood cudgel in his hand] 
How now? What is all this? 

FTATATEETA \_to Jpollodorus] Why did you not stab him? 
There was time! 

APOLLODORUS. Ccnturion: I am here by order of the 
Queen to — 

CENTURION [interrupting him~\ The Queen! Yes, yes: 
[to the sentinel~\ pass him in. Pass all these bazaar people in 
to the Queen, with their goods. But mind you pass no one 
out that you have not passed in — not even the Queen her- 
self 

SENTINEL. This oM woman is dangerous: she is as strong 
as three men. She wanted the merchant to stab me. 



Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 149 

APOLLODORUs. Ccnturion: I am not a merchant. I am a 
patrician and a votary of art. 

CENTURION. Is the woman your wife? 

APOLLODORUS [horrified} No, no! [Correcting himself 
politely^ Not that the lady is not a striking figure in her own 
way. But [emphatically^ she is not my wife. 

FTATATEETA [to the Ccfiturion^ Roman: I am Ftatateeta, 
the mistress of the Queen's household. 

CENTURION. Keep your hands off our men, mistress; or 
I will have you pitched into the harbor, though you were 
as strong as ten men. [7^o his me/i'j To your posts: march! 
[He returns with his men the way they came~\ . 

FTATATEETA [looking malignantly after him'^ We shall see 
whom Isis loves best: her servant Ftatateeta or a dog of a 
Roman. 

SENTINEL [to AfollodoruSy with a wave of his pilum 
towards the palace~\ Pass in there; and keep your distance. 
[Turning to Ftatateeta'] Come within a yard of me, you 
old crocodile; and I will give you tjiis [the pilum] in your 
jaws. 

CLEOPATRA [calling from the palace] Ftatateeta, Ftata- 
teeta. 

FTATATEETA [looking up, scandalized] Go from the win- 
dow, go from the window. There are men here. 

CLEOPATRA. I am coming down. 

FTATATEETA [distracted] No, no. What are you dream- 
ing of.? O ye gods, ye gods! Apollodorus: bid your men 
pick up your bales; and in with me quickly. 

APOLLODORUS. Obey the mistress of the Queen's house- 
hold. 

FTATATEETA [impatiently, as the porters stoop to lift the 
bales] Quick, quick: she will be out upon us. [Cleopatra 
comes from the palace and runs across the quay to Ftatateeta]. 
Oh that ever I was born ! 

CLEOPATRA [eagerly] Ftatateeta: I have thought of some- 
thing. I want a boat — at once. 



•. 



1 50 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

FTATATEETA. A boat! No, Ho: you cannot. Apollodorus: 
speak to the Queen. 

APOLLODORUS \_gallantly\ Beautiful queen: I am Apollo- 
dorus the Sicilian, your servant, from the bazaar. I have 
brought you the three most beautiful Persian carpets in the 
world to choose from. 

CLEOPATRA. I havc no time for carpets to-day. Get me 
a boat. 

FTATATEETA. What whim is this.!* You cannot go on the 
water except in the royal barge. 

APOLLODORUS. Royalty, Ftatateeta, lies not in the barge 
but in the Queen. \_To Cleopatra^ The touch of your 
majesty's foot on the gunwale of the meanest boat in the 
harbor will make it royal. \^He turns to the harbor and calls 
seaward^ Ho there, boatman! Pull in to the steps. 

CLEOPATRA. Apollodorus: you are my perfect knight; 
and I will always buy my carpets through you. \^Apollodorus 
bows joyously. An oar appears above the quay; and the boat ■ 
many a bullet-headed^ vivacious, grinning fellow y burnt almost 
black by the sun, comes up a flight of steps from the water on 
the sentineP s right y oar in handy and waits at the top\ . Can 
you row, Apollodorus? 

APOLLODORUS. My oars shall be your majesty's wings. 
Whither shall I row my Queen? 

CLEOPATRA. To the lighthouse. Come. ^She makes for 
the steps'\ . 

SENTINEL [opposing her with his pilum at the charge"] 
Stand. You cannot pass. 

CLEOPATRA [flushing angrily] How dare you? Do you 
know that I am the Queen? 

SENTINEL. I have my orders. You cannot pass. 

CLEOPATRA. I will make Csesar have you killed if you do 
not obey me. 

SENTINEL. He will do worse to me if I disobey my 
officer. Stand back. 

CLEOPATRA. Ftatatccta: strangle him. 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 151 

SENTINEL \alarmed — looking apprehensively at Ftatateeta, 
and brandishing his pilum] Keep oiF, there. 

CLEOPATRA [running to Apollodorus'\ Apollodorus: make 
your slaves help us. 

APOLLODORUS. 1 shall not need their help, lady. [He 
draws his sword^ Now, soldier: choose which weapon you 
will defend yourself with. Shall it be sword against pilum, 
or sword against sword.? 

SENTINEL. Roman against Sicilian, curse you. Take that. 
\He hurls his pilum at Apollodorus, who drops expertly on one 
knee. The pilum passes whizzing over his head and falls 
harmless. Apollodorus , with a cry of triumph, springs up and 
attacks the sentinel, who draws his sword and defends himself, 
crying\ Ho there, guard. Help! 

Cleopatra, half frightened, half delighted, takes refuge 
near the palace, where the porters are squatting among the 
bales. The boatman, alarmed, hurries down the steps out of 
harm' s way, but stops, with his head just visible above the 
edge of the quay, to watch the fight. The sentinel is handi- 
capped by his fear of an attack in the rear from Ftatateeta. 
His swordsmanship, which is of a rough and ready sort, is 
heavily taxed, as he has occasionally to strike at her to keep 
her off between a blow and a guard with Apollodorus. The 
Centurion returns with several soldiers. Apollodorus springs 
back towards Cleopatra as this reinforcement confronts him. 

CENTURION [coming to the sentineP s right hand~^ What 
is this.? What now.? 

SENTINEL [panting'^ I could do well enough by myself if 
it werent for the old woman. Keep her off me: that is all 
the help I need. 

CENTURION. Make your report, soldier. What has hap- 
pened.? 

FTATATEETA. Ccnturion : he would have slain the Queen. 

SENTINEL [bluntly'] I would, sooner than let her pass. 
She wanted to take boat, and go — so she said — to the 
lighthouse. I stopped her, as I was ordered to; and she set 



15^ Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

this fellow on me. [//> goes to pick up his pilum and returns 
to his place with //] . 

CENTURION [turning to Cleopatrd\ Cleopatra: I am loth 
to offend you; but without Caesar's express order we dare 
not let you pass beyond the Roman lines. 

APOLLODORUs. Well, Centurion; and has not the light- 
house been within the Roman lines since Caesar landed 
there? 

CLEOPATRA. Yes, yes. Answer that, if you can. 

CENTURION \to Apollodorus\ As for you, Apollodorus, 
you may thank the gods that you are not nailed to the 
palace door with a pilum for your meddling. 
^ APOLLODORUS \urbanelj\ My military friend, I was not 
born to be slain by so ugly a weapon. When I fall, it will 
be [holding up his szvord~\ by this white queen of arms, the 
only weapon fit for an artist. And now that you are con- 
vinced that we do not want to go beyond the lines, let me 
finish killing your sentinel and depart with the Queen. 

CENTU RiON [as the sentinel makes an angry demonstratioriX 
Peace there. Cleopatra. I must abide by my orders, and 
not by the subtleties of this Sicilian. You must withdraw 
into the palace and examine your carpets there. 

CLEOPATRA \_pouting\ I will not: I am the Queen. Caesar 
does not speak to me as you do. Have Caesar's centurions 
changed manners with his scullions.'' 

CENTURION \sulkily\ I do my duty. That is enough for 
me. 

APOLLODORUS. Majesty: when a stupid man is doing 
something he is ashamed of, he always declares that it is his 
duty. 

CENTURION \_angrj\ Apollodorus — 

APOLLODORUS [interrupting him with defiant elegance"^ I 
will make amends for that insult with my sword at fitting 
time and place. Who says artist, says duellist. [To Cleo- 
patra'\ Hear my counsel, star of the east. Until word comes 
to these soldiers from Caesar himself, you are a prisoner. 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 1 53 

Let me go to him with a message from you, and a present; 
and before the sun has stooped half way to the arms of the 
sea, I will bring you back Caesar's order of release. 

CENTURION \_sneering at him\ And you will sell the 
Queen the present, no doubt. 

APOLLODORUs. CenturioD : the Queen shall have from me, 
without payment, as the unforced tribute of Sicilian taste 
to Egyptian beauty, the richest of these carpets for her 
present to Caesar. 

CLEOPATRA [exultafitly, to the centuriori^ Now you see 
what an ignorant common creature you are! 

CENTURION \j:urtlj\ Well, a fool and his wares are soon 
parted. \He turns to his me?f\ . Two more men to this post 
here; and see that no one leaves the palace but this man and 
his merchandize. If he draws his sword again inside the 
lines, kill him. To your posts. March. 

He goes out, leaving two auxiliary sentinels with the other. 

APOLLODORUS ^ith poUte goodfellowship\ My friends: 
will you not enter the palace and bury our qu: rrel in a bowl 
of wine.? \He takes out his purse, jingling he coins in //]. 
The Queen has presents for you all. 

SENTINEL \yery sulkf\ You heard our orders. Get about 
your business. 

FIRST AUXILIARY. Ycs: you ought to know better. OiF 
with you. 

SECOND AUXILIARY \looking longingly at the purse — this 
sentinel is a hooknosed man, unlike his comrade, who is squab 
faced^ Do not tantalize a poor man. 

APOLLODORUS [^to Cleopatra~\ Pearl of Queens: the cen- 
turion is at hand; and the Roman soldier is incorruptible 
when his officer is looking. I must carry your word to 
Caesar. 

CLEOPATRA \who has been meditating among the carpets^ 
Are these carpets very heavy? 

APOLLODORUS. It matters not how heavy. There are 
plenty of porters. 



1 54 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

CLEOPATRA. How do they put the carpets into boats? 
Do they throw them down? 

APOLLODORUs. Not into small boats, majesty. It would 
sink them. 

CLEOPATRA. Not into that man's boat, for instance? 
\^poi?iting to the boatman~\. 

APOLLODORUS. No. Too Small. 

CLEOPATRA. But you Can take a carpet to Caesar in it if 
I send one? 

APOLLODORUS. Assurcdly. 

CLEOPATRA. And you will have it carried gently down 
the steps and take great care of it? 

APOLLODORUS. Depend on me. 

CLEOPATRA. Great, great care? 

APOLLODORUS. Morc than of my own body. 

CLEOPATRA. You will promisc me not to let the porters 
drop it or throw it about? 

APOLLODORUS. Placc the most delicate glass goblet in the 
palace in the heart of the roll. Queen; and if it be broken, 
my head shall pay for it. 

CLEOPATRA. Good. Comc, Ftatateeta. [Ftatateeta comes 
to her. Apolhdorus offers to squire them into the palace\ . 
No, .Apollodorus, you must not come. I will choose a carpet 
for myself. You must wait here. \ShQ, runs into the palace^ 

APOLLODORUS \to the porters'] Follow this lady [indicating 
Ftatateeta] ; and obey her. 

The porters rise and take up their bales. 

FTATATEETA \_addressing the porters as if they were 
vermin] This way. And take your shoes off before you put 
your feet on those stairs. 

She goes in, followed by the porters with the carpets. 
Meanwhile Apollodorus goes to the edge of the quay and looks 
out over the harbor. The sentinels keep their eyes on him 
malignantly. 

APOLLODORUS \addressing the sentinel] My friend — 

SENTINEL [rudeh] Silence there. 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 155 

FIRST AUXILIARY. Shut your muzzle, you. 

SECOND AUXILIARY \Jn a half whisper, gla?icing apprehen- 
sively towards the north end of the quay\ Cant you wait a bit? 

APOLLODORUs. Patience, worthy three-headed donkey. 
\^rhey mutter ferociously; but he is not at all intimidated^ . 
Listen: were you set here to watch me, or to watch the 
Egyptians? 

SENTINEL. We know our duty. 

APOLLODORUS. Then why dont you do it? There is 
something going on over there \_pointing southwestward to 
the mole] . 

SENTINEL \julkilyl^ I do not need to be told what to do 
by the like of you. 

APOLLODORUS. Blockhead. \^He begins shouting']^ Ho 
there. Centurion. Hoiho! 

SENTINEL. Curse your meddling. \_Shouting'\ Hoiho! 
Alarm! Alarm! 

FIRST AND SECOND AUXILIARIES. Alarm! alarm! Hoiho! 

The centurion comes running in with his guard. 

CENTURion. What now? Has the old woman attacked 
you again? \Seei?ig Apollodorus^ Are you here still? 

APOLLODORUS [^pointing as before^ See there. The Egyp- 
tians are moving. They are going to recapture the Pharos. 
They will attack by sea and land: by land along the great 
mole; by sea from the west harbor. Stir yourselves, my 
military friends: the hunt is up. [^ clangor of trumpets 
from several points along the quay^. Aha! I told you so. 

CENTURION ^quickly^ The two extra men pass the alarm 
to the south posts. One man keep guard here. The rest 
with me — quick. 

The two auxiliary sentinels run off to the south. The 
centurion and his guard run off northward; and immediately 
afterwards the bucina sounds. The four porters come from 
the palace carrying a carpet, followed by Ftatateeta. 

SENTINEL \handling his pilum apprehensively] You again ! 
[ The porters stop^ . 



156 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

FTATATEETA. Pcacc, Roman fellow: you are now single- 
handed. Apollodorus: this carpet is Cleopatra's present to 
Caesar. It has rolled up in it ten precious goblets of the 
thinnest Iberian crystal, and a hundred eggs of the sacred 
blue pigeon. On your honor, let not one of them be 
broken. 

APOLLODORUS. On my head be it. [^To the porters^ Into 
the boat with them carefully. 

The porters carry the carpet to the steps. 

FIRST PORTER \looking dowfi at the boat~\ Beware what 
you do, sir. Those eggs of which the lady speaks must 
weigh more than a pound apiece. This boat is too small for 
such a load. 

BOATMAN [excitedly rushing up the steps'] Oh thou inju- 
rious porter! Oh thou unnatural son of a she-camel! [To 
Apollodorus'] My boat, sir, hath often carried five men. 
Shall it not carry your lordship and a bale of pigeons* eggs.? 
[To the porter] Thou mangey dromedary, the gods shall 
punish thee for this envious wickedness. 

FIRST PORTER [stoUdly] I caunot quit this bale now to 
beat thee; but another day I will lie in wait for thee. 

APOLLODORUS [gotng between them] Peace there. If the 
boat were but a single plank, I would get to Caesar on it. 

FTATATEETA [anxiously] In the name of the gods, Apollo- 
dorus, run no risks with that bale. 

APOLLODORUS. Fear not, thou venerable grotesque: I 
guess its great worth. [To the porters] Down with it, I say; 
and gently; or ye shall eat nothing but stick for ten days. 

The boatman goes down the steps ^ followed by the porters 
with the bale: Ft at ate eta and Apollodorus watching from the 
edge. 

APOLLODORUS. Gently, my sons, my children — [with 
sudden alarm] gently, ye dogs. Lay it level in the stern — 
so — tis well. 

FTATATEETA [scr earning down at one of the porters^ Do 
not step on it, do not step on it. Oh thou brute beast! 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 157 

FIRST PORTER [ tf/^-f »i//>?^] Be not excited, mistress: all is 
well. 

FTATATEETA \_panting^ All well! Oh, thou hast given my 
heart a turn ! [ She clutches her side, gasping\ . 

The four porters have nozv come up and are waiting at 
the stair head to be paid. 

APOLLODORUs. Here, ye hungry ones. [He gives money 
to the first porter, who holds it in his hand to shew to the 
others. They crowd greedily to see hozv much it is, quite pre- 
pared, after the Eastern fashion, to protest to heaven against 
their patrofi' s stinginess. But his liberality overpowers them~\. 

FIRST PORTER. O bounteous prince! 

SECOND PORTER. O lord of the bazaar! 

THIRD PORTER. O favored of the gods! 

FOURTH PORTER. O father to all the porters of the market! 

SENTINEL [enviously, threatening them fiercely with his 
pilum'\ Hence, dogs: off. Out of this. \They fiy before him 
northward along the quay']. 

APOLLODORUS. Farewell, Ftatateeta. I shall be at the 
lighthouse before the Egyptians. [He descends the steps\ 

FTATATEETA. The gods spccd thee and protect my nursling ! 

The sentry returns from chasing the porters and looks 
down at the boat, standing near the stairhead lest Ftatateeta 
should attempt to escape. 

APOLLODORUS \_from beneath, as the boat moves off~\ 
Farewell, valiant pilum pitcher. 

SENTINEL. Farewell, shopkeeper. 

APOLLODORUS. Ha, ha! Pull, thou brave boatman, pull. 
Soho-o-o-o-o! [He begins to sing in barcarolle measure to the 
rhythm of the oars'\ 

My heart, my heart, spread out thy wings: 
Shake off thy heavy load of love — 

Give me the oars, O son of a snail. 

SENTINEL [threatening Ftatateeta'\ Now mistress: back 
to your henhouse. In with you. 



158 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

FTATATEETA ^falling OK her knees and stretching her 
hands over the waters'] Gods of the seas, bear her safely to 
the shore! 

SENTINEL. Bear who safely? What do you mean? 

FTATATEETA \looking darkly at him] Gods of Egypt and 
of Vengeance, let this Roman fool be beaten like a dog by 
his captain for suffering her to be taken over the waters. 

SENTINEL. Accursed one: is she then in the boat? [^He 
calls over the sea] Hoiho, there, boatman! Hoiho! 

APOLLODORUs [^Singing in the distance] 

My heart, *my heart, be whole and free: 
Love is thine only enemy. 

Meanwhile Rufio, the morning' s fighting done, sits munch- 
ing dates on a faggot of brushwood outside the door of the 
lighthouse, which towers gigantic to the clouds on his left. 
His helmet, full of dates, is between his knees; and a leathern 
bottle of wine is by his side. Behind him the great stone 
pedestal of the lighthouse is shut in from the open sea by a 
low stone parapet, with a couple of steps in the middle to the 
broad coping. A huge chain with a hook hangs down from the 
lighthouse crafie above his head. Faggots like the one he sits 
on lie beneath it ready to be drawn up to feed the beacon. 

Ccesar is standing on the step at the parapet looking out 
anxiously, evidently ill at ease. Britannus comes out of the 
lighthouse door. 

RUFio. Well, my British islander. Have you been up 
to the top? 

BRITANNUS. I havc. I rcckon it at 200 feet high. 

RUFio. Anybody up there? 

BRITANNUS. One elderly Tyrian to work the crane; and 
his son, a well conducted youth of 14. 

RUFIO \looking at the chai?i\ What! An old man and a 
boy work that! Twenty men, you mean. 

BRITANNUS. Two Only, I assure you. They have counter- 
weights, and a machine with boiling water in it which I do 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 159 

not understand: it is not of British design. They use it to 
haul up barrels of oil and faggots to burn in the brazier on 
tlie roof. 

RUFIO. But — 

BRiTANNUs. Excuse mc: I came down because there are 
messengers coming along the mole to us from the island. 
I must see what their business is. [He hurries out past the 
lighthouse^ . 

c^SAR [coming away from the parapet, shivering and out 
of sortsA^ Rufio: this has been a mad expedition. We shall 
be beaten. I wish I knew how our men are getting on with 
that barricade across the great mole. 

RUFIO \angrily\ Must I leave my food and go starving 
to bring you a report? 

c^SAR [soothing him nervously'] No, Rufio, no. Eat, my 
son, eat. [He takes another turn, Rufio chewing dates mean- 
while]. The Egyptians cannot be such fools as not to storm 
the barricade and swoop down on. us here before it is 
finished. It is the first time I have ever run an avoidable 
risk. I should not have come to Egypt. 

RUFIO. An hour ago you were all for victory. 

c^SAR \_apologe tic ally] Yes: I was a fool — rash, Rufio 
— boyish. 

RUFIO. Boyish! Not a bit of it. Here [offering him a 
handful of dates] . 

c^SAR. What are these for? 

RUFIO. To eat. Thats whats the matter with you. 
When a man comes to your age, he runs down before his 
midday meal. Eat and drink; and then have another look 
at our chances. 

c^SAR [taking the dates] My age ! [He shakes his head 
and bites a date'\. Yes, Rufio: I am an old man — worn out 
now — true, quite true. [He gives way to melancholy con- 
templation, and eats another date]. Achillas is still in his 
prime: Ptolemy is a boy. [He eats another date, and plucks 
up a little]. Well, every dog has his day; and I have had 



i6o Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

mine: I cannot complain. \ With sudden cheerfultiess] These 
dates are not bad, Rufio. [Britannus returns, greatly excited, 
with a kathern bag. Casar is himself again in a moment'^ . 
What now? 

BRITANNUS [triumphantly] Our brave Rhodian mariners 
have captured a treasure. There! \_He throvjs the bag down 
at Ctesar's feet~\. Our enemies are delivered into our 
hands. 

CiESAR. In that bag? 

BRITANNUS. Wait till you hear, Caesar. This bag con- 
tains all the letters which have passed between Pompey's 
party and the army of occupation here. 

CiESAR. Well? 

BRITANNUS [impatient of Ccesar'' s slowness to grasp the 
situatiofi] Well, we shall now know who your foes are. 
The name of every man who has plotted against you since 
you crossed the Rubicon may be in these papers, for all we 
know. 

c^SAR. Put them in the fire. 

BRITANNUS. Put them — [he gasps~\ ! ! ! ! 

CiESAR. In the fire. Would you have me waste the next 
three years of my life in proscribing and condemning men 
who will be my friends when I have proved that my 
friendship is worth more than Pompey's was — than Cato's 
is. O incorrigible British islander: am I a bull dog, to seek 
quarrels merely to shew how stubborn my jaws are? 

BRITANNUS. But your honor — the honor of Rome — 

c/ESAR. I do not make human sacrifices to my honor, as 
your Druids do. Since you will not burn these, at least I 
can drown them. [He picks up the bag and throws it over 
the parapet into the sea'j . 

BRITANNUS. CaEsar: this is mere eccentricity. Are traitors 
to be allowed to go free for the sake of a paradox? 

RUFIO [rising'] Caesar: when the islander has finished 
preaching, call me again. I am going to have a look at the 
boiling water machine. [He goes into the lighthouse]. 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra i6i 

BRiTANNUS [zvitb geuu'uie feeling] O Caesar, my great 
master, if I could but persuade you to regard life seriously, 
as men do in my country ! 

c^sAR. Do they truly do so, Britannus? 

BRITANNUS. Havc you not been there? Have you not 
seen them? What Briton speaks as you do in your moments 
of levity? What Briton neglects to attend the services at the 
sacred grove? What Briton wears clothes of many colors as 
you do, instead of plain blue, as all solid, well esteemed 
men should? These are moral questions with us. 

CiESAR. Well, well, my friend: some day I shall settle 
down and have a blue toga, perhaps. Meanwhile, I must 
get on as best I can in my flippant Roman way. \Apollo- 
dorus comes past the lighthouse']. What now? 

BRITANNUS [tumi/ig quickljy and challenging the stranger 
with official haughtiness] What is this? Who are you? How 
did you come here? 

APOLLODORUs. Calm yourself, my friend: I am not 
going to eat you. I have come by boat, from Alexandria, 
with precious gifts for Caesar. 

c^SAR. From Alexandria! 

BRITANNUS \_severely\ That is Caesar, sir. 

RUFio [appearing at the lighthouse door] Whats the 
matter now? 

APOLLODORUS. Hail, great Caesar! I am Apollodorus the 
Sicilian, an artist. 

BRITANNUS. An artist ! Why have they admitted this 
vagabond? 

ciESAR. Peace, man. Apollodorus is a famous patrician 



amateur. 



BRITANNUS [disconcerted] I crave the gentleman's pardon. 
\^To C^sar] I understood him to say that he was a profes- 
sional. [Somewhat out of countenance, he allows Apollodorus 
to approach Casar, changing places with him. Rufio, after 
looking Apollodorus up and down with marked disparagement, 
goes to the other side of the platform] . 



1 62 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

Ci^sAR. You are welcome, Apollodorus. What is your 
business? 

APOLLODORUS. First, to deliver to you a present from 
the Queen of Queens. 

c^SAR. Who is that? 

APOLLODORUS. Clcopatra of Egypt. 

c^SAR [taking him into his confidence in his most winning 
manner] Apollodorus: this is no time for playing with 
present?. Pray you, go back to the Queen, and tell her that 
if all goes well I shall return to the palace this evening. 

APOLLODORUS. Csesar: I cannot return. As I approached 
the lighthouse, some fool threw a great leathern bag into 
the sea. It broke the nose of my boat; and I had hardly 
time to get myself and my charge to the shore before the 
poor little cockleshell sank. 

c^SAR. I am sorry, Apollodorus. The fool shall be 
rebuked. Well, well: what have you brought me? The 
Queen will be hurt if I do not look at it. 

RUFio. Have we time to waste on this trumpery? The 
Queen is only a child. 

c^SAR. Just so: that is why we must not disappoint her. 
What is the present, Apollodorus? 

APOLLODORUS. CaBsar: it is a Persian carpet — a beauty! 
And in it are — so I am told — pigeons' eggs and crystal 
goblets and fragile precious things. I dare not for my head 
have it carried up that narrow ladder from the causeway. 

RUFio. Swing it up by the crane, then. We will send 
the eggs to the cook; drink our wine from the goblets; and 
the carpet will make a bed for Cssar. 

APOLLODORUS. The cranc ! Caesar: I have sworn to 
tender this bale of carpet as I tender my own life. 

CiESAR \cheerfully\ Then let them swing you up at the 
same time; and if the chain breaks, you and the pigeons' 
eggs will perish together. \^He goes to the chain and looks up 
along it, examining it curiously] . 

APOLLODORUS [to Britannus] Is Caesar serious? 



Act III C'dssar and Cleopatra 163 

BRiTANNUs. His manner is frivolous because he is an 
Italian; but he means what he says. 

APOLLODORUs. Serious or not, he spake well. Give me 
a squad of soldiers to work the crane. 

BRiTANNUs. Lcave the crane to me. Go and await the 
descent of the chain. 

APOLLODORUS. Good. You will presently see me there 
\turni71g to them all and pointing with an eloquent gesture to 
the sky above the parapet^ rising like the sun with my 
treasure. 

He goes back the way he came. Britannus goes into the 
lighthouse. 

RUFio [^ill-humoredly^ Are you really going to w^ait here 
for this foolery, Caesar? 

CiESAR [backing away from the crane as it gives signs of 
working\ Why not? 

RUFIO. The Egyptians will let you know why not if 
they have the sense to make a rush from the shore end of the 
mole before our barricade is finished. And here we are 
waiting like children to see a carpet full of pigeons' eggs. 

The chain rattles, and is drawn up high enough to clear 
the parapet. It then swings round out of sight behind the 
lighthouse. 

c^sAR. Fear not, my son Rufio. When the first Egyptian 
takes his first step along the mole, the alarm will sound; 
and we two will reach the barricade from our end before 
the Egyptians reach it from their end — we two, Rufio: I, 
the old man, and you, his biggest boy. And the old man 
will be there first. So peace; and give me some more dates. 

APOLLODORUS [fro?n the causeway below'\ Soho, haul 
away. So-ho-o-o-o! [The chain is drawn up and comes round 
again from behind the lighthouse. Apollo dor us is swinging in 
the air with his bale of carpet at the end of it. He breaks 
into song as he soars above the parapet^ 

Aloft, aloft, behold the blue 

That never shone in woman's eyes — 



164 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

Easy there: stop her. [He ceases to rise']. Further round! 
[Tbe chain comes forward above the platform]. 

RUFio [calling up] Lower away there. [The chain and its 
load begin to descend]. 

APOLLODORus [calling up] Gently — slowly — mind the 
eggs. 

RUFIO [calling up] Easy there — slowly — slowly. 

Apollodorus and the bale are deposited safely on the flags in 
the middle of the platform. Rufio and Casar help Apollodorus 
to cast off the chain from the bale. 

RUFIO. Haul up. 

The chain rises clear of their heads with a rattle. Br it an- 
nus comes from the lighthouse and helps them to uncord the 
carpet. 

APOLLODORUS [whcn the cords are loose] Stand off, my 
friends: let Caesar see. [He throzos the carpet open]. 

RUFIO. Nothing but a heap of shawls. Where are the 
pigeons' eggs.? 

APOLLODORUS. Approach, Caesar; and search for them 
among the shawls. 

RUFIO [drawing his sword] Ha, treachery! Keep back, 
Caesar: I saw the shawl move: there is something alive 
there. 

BRiTANNUS [drawing his sword] It is a serpent. 

APOLLODORUS. Darcs Caesar thrust his hand into the sack 
where the serpent moves? 

RUFIO [turning on him] Treacherous dog — 

c^SAR. Peace. Put up your swords. Apollodorus: your 
serpent seems to breathe very regularly. [He thrusts his 
hand under the shawls and draws out a bare arm] . This is a 
pretty little snake. 

RUFIO [drawing out the other arm] Let us have the rest 
of you. 

They pull Cleopatra up by the wrists into a sitting position. 
BritannuSy scandalizedy sheathes his sword with a drive of 
protest. 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 165 

CLEOPATRA [gasp^^g] Oh, I'm smothered. Oh, Caesar; 
a man stood on me in the boat; and a great sack of some- 
thing fell upon me out of the sky; and then the boat sank, 
and then I was swung up into the air and bumped down. 

c^SAR [^petting her as she rises a?id takes refuge on his 
breasf\ Well, never mind: here you are safe and sound at 
last. 

RUFio. Ay; and now that she is here, what are we to do 
with her? 

BRiTANNUS. She cannot stay here, Caesar, without the 
companionship of some matron. 

CLEOPATRA \^jealous/yy to Ccesar, who is obviously per- 
plexed'^ Arnt you glad to see me? 

Ci^SAR. Yes, yes; / am very glad. But Rufio is very 
angry; and Britannus is shocked. 

CLEOPATRA \_co?itemptuously^ You can have their heads 
cut off, can you not? 

Ci^SAR. They would not be so useful with their heads 
cut off as they are now, my sea bird. 

RUFIO [/(? Cleopatra'] We shall have to go away presently 
and cut some of your Egyptians' heads off. How will you 
like being left here with the chance of being captured by 
that little brother of yours if we are beaten? 

CLEOPATRA. But you mustnt leave me alone. C^sar: you 
will not leave me alone, will you? 

RUFIO. What! not when the trumpet sounds and all our 
lives depend on Caesar's being at the barricade before the 
Egyptians reach it? Eh? 

CLEOPATRA. Let them lose their lives: they are only soldiers. 

CiESAR ^gravely] Cleopatra: when that trumpet sounds, 
we must take every man his life in his hand, and throw it 
in the face of Death. And of my soldiers who have trusted 
me there is not one whose hand I shall not hold more 
sacred than your head. \J2leopatr a is overwhelmed. Her eyes 
fill with tears]. Apollodorus: you must take her back to 
the palace. 



1 66 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

APOLLODORUs. Am I a dolphin, Caesar, to cross the seas 
with young ladies on my back? My boat is sunk: all yours 
are either at the barricade or have returned to the city. I 
will hail one if I can: that is all I can do. \^He goes back to 
the causeway]^ . 

CLEOPATRA \jtruggli?ig With her tears\ It does not mat- 
ter, I will not go back. Nobody cares for me. 

C-«:sAR. Cleopatra — 

CLEOPATRA. You Want me to be killed. 

CiESAR \5till more gravely^ My poor child: your life 
matters little here to anyone but yourself. [She gives way 
altogether at this, casting herself down on the faggots weep- 
ing. Suddenly a great tumult is heard in the distance y bucinas 
and trumpets sounding through a storm of shouting. Brit annus 
rushes to the parapet and looks along the mole. Ccssar and 
Rufio turn to one another with quick intelligence~\. 

CiESAR. Come, Rufio. 

CLEOPATRA \scrambling to her knees and clinging to him] 
No, no. Do not leave me, Caesar. \_He snatches his skirt 
from her clutch'^ . Oh ! 

BRIT ANNUS [from the par ape t\ Caesar: we are cut off. 
The Egyptians have landed from the west harbor between 
us and the barricade!!! 

RUFIO \running to see'\ Curses! It is true. We are caught 
like rats in a trap. 

c^SAR \ruthfully^ Rufio, Rufio: my men at the barri- 
cade are between the sea party and the shore party. I have 
murdered them. 

RUFIO \^coming back from the parapet to Casar^ s right 
hand] Ay: that comes of fooling with this girl here. 

APOLLODORUS \^coming up quickly from the causeway] 
Look over the parapet, Caesar. 

c^SAR. We have looked, my friend. We must defend 
ourselves here. 

APOLLODORUS. I havc thrown the ladder into the sea. 
They cannot get in without it. 



Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 167 

RUFio. Ay; and we cannot get out. Have you thought 
of that? 

APOLLODORUs. Not get out! Why not? You have ships 
in the east harbor. 

BRiTANNUs [hopefuily, at the parap€t\ The Rhodian gal- 
leys are standing in towards us already. \Ceesar quickly 
joins Britannus at the parapet^ . 

RUFIO [/■<? Apollodorus^ impatiently^ And by what road 
are we to walk to the galleys, pray? 

APOLLODORUS \with gay y defiant rhetoric^ By the road 
that leads everywhere — the diamond path of the sun and 
moon. Have you never seen the child's shadow play of 
The Broken Bridge? ** Ducks and geese with ease get over" 
— eh? \^He throws away his cloak and cap, and binds his 
sword on his back]. 

RUFIO. What are you talking about? 

APOLLODORUS. I will shcw you. [^Calling to Britannus'\ 
How far off is the nearest galley? 

BRITANNUS. Fifty fathom. 

c^SAR. No, no: they are further off than they seem in 
this clear air to your British eyes. Nearly quarter of a mile, 
Apollodorus. 

APOLLODORUS. Good. Defend yourselves here until I 
send you a boat from that galley. 

RUFIO. Have you wings, perhaps? 

APOLLODORUS. Water wings, soldier. Behold! 

He runs up the steps between Casar and Britannus to the 
coping of the parapet; springs into the air; and plunges head 
foremost into the sea. 

CiESAR \like a schoolboy — wildly excited'] Bravo, bravo! 
\Throzving off his cloak] By Jupiter, I will do that too. 

RUFIO [seizing him] You are mad. You shall not. v 

c^SAR. Why not? Can I not swim as well as he? 

RUFIO \_frantic] Can an old fool dive and swim like a 
young one? He is twenty-five and you are fifty. 

c-<ESAR [breaking loose from Rufio] Old!!! 



i68 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill 

BRIT ANNUS ^sbocke^^^ Rufio: you forget yourself. 

c^sAR. I will race you to the galley for a week's pay, 
father Rufio. 

CLEOPATRA. But mf ! me!! me!!! what is to become 
of m e ? 

c^sAR. I will carry you on my back to the galley like 
a dolphin. Rufio: when you see me rise to the surface, 
throw her in: I will answer for her. And then in with you 
after her, both of you. 

CLEOPATRA. No, no, NO. I shall be drowned. 

BRiTANNUs. Cassar: I am a man and a Briton, not a fish. 
I must have a boat. I cannot swim. 

CLEOPATRA. Neither can I. 

CESAR ^fo Britannus^ Stay here, then, alone, until I 
recapture the lighthouse: I will not forget you. Now, Rufio. 

RUFIO. You have made up your mind to this folly? 

CiESAR. The Egyptians have made it up for me. What 
else is there to do? And mind where you jump: I do not 
want to get your fourteen stone in the small of my back 
as I come up. [//i? runs up the steps and stands on the 
coping]. 

BRITANNUS ^anxtously] One last word, Caesar. Do not 
let yourself be seen in the fashionable part of Alexandria 
until you have changed your clothes. 

c/ESAR \^calli7ig over the sea] Ho, Apollodorus: [he points 
skyward and quotes the barcarolle] 

The white upon the blue above — 

APOLLODORUS [swimming in the distance] 
Is purple on the green below — 

CiESAR [^exultantly] Aha! [He plunges into the sea]. 

CLEOPATRA [running excitedly to the steps']^ Oh, let me 
see. He will be drowned [Rufio seizes her] — Ah — ah — 
ah — ah! ^He pitches her screaming into the sea. Rufio and 
Britannus roar with laughter]. 

RUFIO [looking down after her] He has got her. [ To 



Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 169 

Britannus\ Hold the fort, Briton. Caesar will not forget 
you. \He springs off'\. 

BRiTANNUS [running to the steps to watch them as they 
swim\ All safe, Rufio? 

RUFio [swimming^ All safe. 

C2ESAK \jwi7nming further off^ Take refuge up there by 
the beacon; and pile the fuel on the trap door, Britannus. 

BRITANNUS \_calling in replj\ I will first do so, and then 
commend myself to my country's gods. [A sound of cheer- 
ing from the sea. Britannus gives full vent to his excitement^ 
The boat has reached him: Hip, hip, hip, hurrah! 



ACT IV 

Cleopatra' 5 sousing in the east harbor of Alexandria was 
in October 48 B. C. In March 47 she is passing the after- 
noon in her boudoir in the palace, among a bevy of her ladies, 
listening to a slave girl who is playing the harp in the middle 
of the room. The harpist^ s master, an old musician, zvith a 
lined face, prominent brows, white beard, moustache and eye- 
brows twisted and horned at the ends, and a consciously keen 
and pretentious expression, is squatting on the floor close to her 
on her right, watching her performance. Ftatateeta is in 
attendance near the door, in front of a group of female slaves. 
Except the harp player all are seated: Cleopatra in a chair 
opposite the door on the other side of the room; the rest on the 
ground, Cleopatra' s ladies are all young, the most conspicuous 
being Charmian and Iras, her favorites. Charmian is a 
hatchet faced, terra cotta colored little goblin, swift in her 
movements, and neatly finished at the hands and feet. Iras is 
a plump, goodnatured creature, rather fatuous, with a pro- 
fusion of red hair, and a tendency to giggle on the slightest 
provocation. 

CLEOPATRA. Can I 

FTATATEETA \Jnsolently, to the player^ Peace, thou ! The 
Queen speaks. \The player stops\ 

CLEOPATRA \to the old musician'] I want to learn to play 
the harp with my own hands. Caesar loves music. Can you 
teach me.? 

MUSICIAN. Assuredly I and no one else can teach the 
queen. Have I not discovered the lost method of the 
ancient Egyptians, who could make a pyramid tremble by 

170 



Act IV C^sar and Cleopatra 171 

touching a bass string? All the other teachers are quacks: 
I have exposed them repeatedly. 

CLEOPATRA. Good: you shall teach me. How long will 
it take? 

MUSICIAN. Not very long: only four years. Your 
Majesty must first become proficient in the philosophy of 
Pythagoras. 

CLEOPATRA. Has shc [indicating the siave~\ become pro- 
ficient in the philosophy of Pythagoras? 

MUSICIAN. Oh, she is but a slave. She learns as a dog learns. 

CLEOPATRA. W^ll, then, I will learn as a dog learns; for 
she plays better than you. You shall give me a lesson every 
day for a fortnight. [The musician hastily scrambles to his 
feet and bows profoundly')^. After that, whenever I strike a 
false note you shall be flogged; and if I strike so many that 
there is not time to flog you, you shall be thrown into the 
Nile to feed the crocodiles. Give the girl a piece of gold; 
and send them away. 

MUSICIAN [much taken abacK\ But true art will not be 
thus forced. 

FTATATEETA [pushing him out^ What is this? Answering 
the Queen, forsooth. Out with you. 

He is pushed out by Ftatateeta, the girl following with her 
harpy amid the laughter of the ladies and slaves. 

CLEOPATRA. Now, Can any of you amuse me? Have you 
any stories or any news? 

IRAS. Ftatateeta — 

CLEOPATRA. Oh, Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta, always Ftatateeta. 
Some new tale to set me against her. 

IRAS. No: this time Ftatateeta has been virtuous. [All 
the ladies laugh — not the slaves']. Pothinus has been trying 
to bribe her to let him speak with you. 

CLEOPATRA [wrathfully] Ha ! you all sell audiences with 
me, as if I saw whom you please, and not whom I please. 
I should like to know how much of her gold piece that harp 
girl will have to give up before she leaves the palace. 



1^1 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

IRAS. We can easily find out that for you. 

The ladies laugh. 

CLEOPATRA \_frozvning\ You laugh; but take care, take 
care. I will find out some day how to make myself served 
as Caesar is served. 

CHARMiAN. Old hooknose! \_They laugh againl. 

CLEOPATRA ^rez^oluJ] Silence. Charmian: do not you 
be a silly little Egyptian fool. Do you know why I allow 
you all to chatter impertinently just as you please, instead 
of treating you as Ftatateeta would treat you if she were 
Queen.? 

CHARMIAN. Because you try to imitate Cassar in every- 
thing; and he lets everybody say what they please to him. 

CLEOPATRA. No; but bccause I asked him one day why 
he did so; and he said **Let your women talk; and you 
will learn something from them." What have I to learn 
from them? I said. '*What they are," said he; and oh! 
you should have seen his eye as he said it. You would have 
curled up, you shallow things. \_They laugh. She turns 
fiercely on Iras'\. At whom are you laughing — at me or at 
Caesar? 

IRAS. At Caesar. 

CLEOPATRA. If you werc not a fool, you would laugh at 
me; and if you were not a coward you would not be afraid 
to tell me so. \_Ftatateeta returns']. Ftatateeta: they tell me 
that Pothinus has offered you a bribe to admit him to my 
presence. 

FTATATEETA \_protesting'\ Now by my father's gods — 

CLEOPATRA [cutttng her short despotically] Have I not 
told you not to deny things? You would spend the day 
calling your father's gods to witness to your virtues if I let 
you. Go take the bribe; and bring in Pothinus. [Ftatateeta 
is about to reply] . Dont answer me. Go. 

Ftatateeta goes out; and Cleopatra rises and begins to 
prowl to and fro between her chair and the door^ meditating. 
All rise and stand. 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 173 

IRAS [^as she reluctantly rises'] Heigho! I wish Caesar 
were back in Rome, 

CLEOPATRA [^tbreate/ii^gly] It will be a bad day for you 
all when he goes. Oh, if I were not ashamed to let him 
see that I am as cruel at heart as my father, I would make 
you repent that speech! Why do you wish him away? 

CHARMiAN. He makes you so terribly prosy and serious 
and learned and philosophical. It is worse than being 
religious, at our ages. [The ladies laugh], 

CLEOPATRA. Ccasc that endless cackling, will you. Hold 
your tongues. 

CHARMIAN \with mock resignatio7i] Well, well: we must 
try to live up to C^sar. 

They laugh again. Cleopatra rages silently as she continues 
to prozdl to and fro. Ftatateeta comes back with Pothinus, 
who halts on the threshold. 

FTATATEETA \at the door] Pothinus craves the ear of 
the — 

CLEOPATRA. There, there: that will do: let him come in. 
[She resumes her seat. All sit down except Pothinus^ who 
advances to the middle of the room. Ftatateeta takes her 
former place]. Well, Pothinus: what is the latest news 
from your rebel friends.'' 

POTHINUS \Jjaughtily] I am no friend of rebellion. And 
a prisoner does not receive news. 

CLEOPATRA. You are no more a prisoner than I am — 
than Caesar is. These six months we have been besieged in 
this palace by my subjects. You are allowed to walk on the 
beach among the soldiers. Can I go further myself, or can 
Cssar.? 

POTHINUS. You arc but a child, Cleopatra, and do not 
understand these matters. 

The ladies laugh, Cleopatra looks inscrutably at him. 

CHARMIAN. I see you do not know the latest news, 
Pothinus. 

POTHINUS. What is that.? 



174 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

CHARMIAN. That Cleopatra is no longer a child. Shall 
I tell you -how to grow much older, and much, much 
wiser in one day? 

POTHINUS. I should prefer to grow wiser without grow- 
ing older. 

CHARMIAN. Well, go up to the top of the lighthouse; 
and get somebody to take you by the hair and throw you 
into the sea. [The ladies laugh\ 

CLEOPATRA. She is right, Pothinus: you will come to 
the shore with much conceit washed out of you. \The ladies 
laugh. Cleopatra rises impatiently]. Begone, all of you. I 
will speak with Pothinus alone. Drive them out, Ftatateeta. 
[They run out laughing. Ftatateeta shuts the door on them]. 
What are you waiting for.? 

FTATATEETA. It is not mect that the Queen remain alone 
with — 

CLEOPATRA [interrupting her] Ftatateeta: must I sacrifice 
you to your father's gods to teach you that /am Queen of 
Egypt, and not you.? 

FTATATEETA [indignantly] You are like the rest of them. 
You want to be what these Romans call a New Woman. 
[She goes out, hanging the door\ . 

CLEOPATRA [sitting down again] Now, Pothinus: why 
did you bribe Ftatateeta to bring you hither.? 

POTHINUS [studying her gravely] Cleopatra: what they 
tell me is true. You are changed. 

CLEOPATRA. Do you spcak with Caesar every day for six 
months: and you will be changed. 

POTHINUS. It is the common talk that you are infatuated 
with this old man. 

CLEOPATRA. Infatuated? What does that mean? Made 
foolish, is it not? Oh no: I wish I were. 

POTHINUS. You wish you were made foolish! How so? 

CLEOPATRA. When I was foolish, I did what I liked, 
except when Ftatateeta beat me; and even then I cheated 
her and did it by stealth. Now that Caesar has made me 



Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 175 

wise, it is no use my liking or disliking; I do what must 
be done, and have no time to attend to myself. That is not 
happiness; but it is greatness. If Caesar were gone, I think 
I could govern the Egyptians; for what Caesar is to me, I 
am to the fools around me. 

POTHINUS \looking hard at ber] Cleopatra: this may be 
the vanity of youth. 

CLEOPATRA. No, noi it is not that I am so clever, but 
that the others are so stupid. 

POTHINUS [musmg/y'] Truly, that is the great secret. 

CLEOPATRA. Well, now tell me what you came to say.'' 

POTHINUS [^t.ml>arrassed] I! Nothing. 

CLEOPATRA. Nothing! 

POTHINUS. At least — to beg for my liberty: that is all. 

CLEOPATRA. For that you would have knelt to Cssar. 
No, Pothinus: you came with some plan that depended 
on Cleopatra being a little nursery kitten. Now that 
Cleopatra is a Queen, the plan is upset. 

POTHINUS [^Aozc'ing bis head submissively^ It is so. 

CLEOPATRA \exultanf\ Aha! 

POTHINUS \raising his eyes keenly to hers"] Is Cleopatra 
then indeed a Queen, and no longer Cassar's prisoner and 
slave? 

CLEOPATRA. Pothinus: we are all Csesar's slaves — all we 
in this land of Egypt — whether we will or no. And she 
who is wise enough to know this will reign when Caesar 
departs. 

POTHINUS. You harp on Caesar's departure. 

CLEOPATRA. What if I do? 

POTHINUS. Does he not love you? 

CLEOPATRA. Love me! Pothinus: Caesar loves no one. 
Who are those we love? Only those whom we do not hate: 
all people are strangers and enemies to us except those we 
love. But it is not so with Caesar. He has no hatred in 
him: he makes friends with everyone as he does with dogs 
and children. His kindness to me is a wonder: neither 



176 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

mother, father, nor nurse have ever taken so much care for 
me, or thrown open their thoughts to me so freely. 

POTHINUS. Well: is not this love? 

CLEOPATRA. What! When he will do as much for the 
first girl he meets on his way back to Rome? Ask his slave, 
Britannus: he has been just as good to him. Nay, ask his 
very horse! His kindness is not for anything in me: it is in 
his own nature. 

POTHINUS. But how can you be sure that he does not 
love you as men love women? 

CLEOPATRA. Because I cannot make him jealous. I have 
tried. 

POTHINUS. Hm! Perhaps I should have asked, then, do 
you love him? 

CLEOPATRA. Can one love a god? Besides, I love another 
Roman: one whom I saw long before Cassar — no god, but 
a man — one who can love and hate — one whom I can 
hurt and who would hurt me. 

POTHINUS. Does Caesar know this? 

CLEOPATRA. YeS. 

POTHINUS. And he is not angry. 

CLEOPATRA. He promises to send him to Egypt to please 
me! 

POTHINUS. I do not understand this man? 

CLEOPATRA [zviib superb contempt] You understand 
Caesar! How could you? [Proudly] I do — by instinct. 

POTHINUS [deferentially, after a momenf s thought] Your 
Majesty caused me to be admitted to-day. What message 
has the Queen for me? 

CLEOPATRA. This. You think that by making my 
brother king, you will rule in Egypt, because you are his 
guardian and he is a little silly. 

POTHINUS. The Queen is pleased to say so. 

CLEOPATRA. The Quccn is pleased to say this also. That 
Caesar will eat up you, and Achillas, and my brother, as a 
cat eats up mice; and that he will put on this land of Egypt 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 177 

as a shepherd puts on his garment. And when he has done 
that, he will return to Rome, and leave Cleopatra here as 
his viceroy. 

POTHiNUS [breaking out wrathfullj\ That he will never 
do. We have a thousand men to his ten; and we will drive 
him and bis beggarly legions into the sea. 

CLEOPATRA \with scom, getting up to go']^ You rant like 
any common fellow. Go, then, and marshal your thousands; 
and make haste; for Mithridates of Pergamos is at hand 
with reinforcements for Cassar. Caesar has held you at bay 
with two legions: we shall see what he will do with twenty. 

POTHINUS. Cleopatra — 

CLEOPATRA. Euough, cnough: Caesar has spoiled me for 
talking to weak things like you. \She goes out. Pothinus, 
with a gesture of rage, is following^ when Ftatateeta enters 
and stops him\ . 

POTHINUS. Let me go forth from this hateful place. 

FTATATEETA. What angers you? 

POTHINUS. The curse of all the gods of Egypt be upon 
her! She has sold her country to the Roman, that she may 
buy it back from him with her kisses. 

FTATATEETA. Fool : did shc not tell you that she would 
have Csesar gone? 

POTHINUS. You listened? 

FTATATEETA. I took carc that some honest woman should 
be at hand whilst you were with her. 

POTHINUS. Now by the gods — 

FTATATEETA. Enough of your gods! Caesar's gods are all 
powerful here. It is no use you coming to Cleopatra: you 
are only an Egyptian. She will not listen to any of her own 
race: she treats us all as children. 

POTHINUS. May she perish for it! 

FTATATEETA \balefuUy'\ May your tongue wither for that 
wish! Go! send for Lucius Septimius, the slayer of Pompey. 
He is a Roman: may be she will listen to him. Begone! 

POTHINUS \_darklj\ I know to whom I must go now. 



178 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

FTATATEETA [suspicious/y] To whom, then? 

poTHiNus. To a greater Roman than Lucius. And mark 
this, mistress. You thought, before Caesar came, that Egypt 
should presently be ruled by you and your crew in the 
name of Cleopatra. I set myself against it — 

FTATATEETA [interrupting him — wrangling\ Ay; that it 
might be ruled by you and your crew in the name of 
Ptolemy. 

POTHINUS. Better me, or even you, than a woman with 
a Roman heart; and that is what Cleopatra is now become. 
Whilst I live, she shall never rule. So guide yourself 
accordingly. \He goes out^. 

It is by this time drawing on to dinner time. The table is 
laid on the roof of the palace; and thither Rufio is now climb- 
ing., ushered by a majestic palace official, wand of office in 
handy and followed by a slave carrying an inlaid stool. After 
many stairs they emerge at last into a massive colonnade on 
the roof Light curtains are drawn between the columns on 
the north and east to soften the westering sun. The official 
leads Rufio to one of these shaded sections. A cord for pulling 
the curtains apart hangs down between the pillars. 

THE OFFICIAL \bowing'\ The Roman commander will 
await Caesar here. 

The slave sets down the stool near the southernmost 
column, and slips out through the curtains. 

RUFIO \sitting down, a little blown'\ Pouf ! That was a 
climb. How high have we come.? 

THE OFFICIAL. We are on the palace roof, O Beloved 
of Victory ! 

RUFIO. Good! the Beloved of Victory has no more 
stairs to get up. 

A second official enters from the opposite end, walking 
backwards. 

THE SECOND OFFICIAL. Caesar approaches. 

Ccesar, fresh from the bath, clad in a new tunic of purple 
silk, comes in, beaming and festive, followed by two slaves 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 179 

carrying a light couch, which is hardly more tha?i an elabo- 
rately designed bench. They place it near the northmost of the 
two curtained columns. When this is done they slip out 
through the curtains; and the two officials, formally bowing, 
follow them. Rufio rises to receive Caesar. 

CiESAR \ coming over to him] Why, Rufio! [Surveying his 
dress with an air of admiring astonishment^^ A new baldrick! 
A new golden pommel to your sword! And you have had 
your hair cut! But not your beard — ? impossible! \He 
sniffs at Rufio* s beard\ Yes, perfumed, by Jupiter 
Olympus! 

RUFIO \grGwli7ig\ Well; is it to please myself? 

c^SAR [affectionately'^ No, my son Rufio, but to please 
me — to celebrate my birthday. 

RUFIO [contemptuously^ Your birthday ! You always have 
a birthday when there is a pretty girl to be flattered or an 
ambassador to be conciliated. We had seven of them in 
ten months last year. 

Ci5:sAR [contritely'\ It is true, Rufio! I shall never break 
myself of these petty deceits. 

RUFIO. Who is to dine with us — besides Cleopatra? 

CiESAR. Apollodorus the Sicilian. 

RUFIO. That popinjay ! 

CiESAR. Come! the popinjay is an amusing dog — tells 
a story; sings a song; and saves us the trouble of flattering 
the Queen. What does she care for old politicians and 
camp-fed bears like us? No: Apollodorus is good company, 
Rufio, good company. 

RUFIO. Well, he can swim a bit and fence a bit: he 
might be worse, if he only knew how to hold his tongue. 

c-ff;sAR. The gods forbid he should ever learn ! Oh, this 
military life! this tedious, brutal life of action! That is the 
worst of us Romans: we are mere doers and drudgers: a 
swarm of bees turned into men. Give me a good talker — 
one with wit and imagination enough to live without con- 
tinually doing something! 



i8o Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

RUFio. Ay! a nice time he would have of it with you 
when dinner was over! Have you noticed that I am before 
my time? 

CiESAR. Aha! I thought that meant something. What 
is it? 

RUFIO. Can we be overheard here? 

c^SAR. Our privacy invites eavesdropping. I can 
remedy that. [He claps his hands twice. The curtains are 
drawny revealing the roof garden with a banqueting table set 
across in the middle for four persons, one at each end, and two 
side by side. The side next Caesar and Rufio is blocked with 
golden wine vessels and basins. A gorgeous major-domo is 
superintending the laying of the table by a staff of slaves. 
The colonnade goes round the garden at both sides to the 
further end, where a gap in it, like a great gateway, leaves 
the view open to the sky beyond the western edge of the roof, 
except in the middle, where a life size image of Ra, seated on 
a huge plinth, towers up, with hawk head and crown of asp 
and disk. His altar, which stands at his feet, is a single 
white stone'\. Now everybody can see us, nobody will 
think of listening to us. [He sits down on the bench left by 
the two slaves] . 

RUFIO [sitting down on his stool~\ Pothinus wants to speak 
to you. I advise you to see him: there is some plotting 
going on here among the women. 

c^SAR. Who is Pothinus? 

RUFIO. The fellow with hair like squirrel's fur — the 
little King's bear leader, whom you kept prisoner. 

CiESAR [a?inoyed'\ And has he not escaped? 

RUFIO. No. 

c^SAR [rising imperiously'] Why not? You have been 
guarding this man instead of watching the enemy. Have I 
not told you always to let prisoners escape unless there are 
special orders to the contrary? Are there not enough mouths 
to be fed without him? 

RUFIO. Yes; and if vou would have a little sense and let 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra i8i 

me cut his throat, you would save his rations. Anyhow, he 
wont escape. Three sentries have told him they would put 
a pilum through him if they saw him again. What more can 
they do? He prefers to stay and spy on us. So would I if I 
had to do with generals subject to fits of clemency. 

CAESAR \resuming his seat, argued dowrf^ Hm ! And so he 
wants to see me. 

RUFio. Ay. I have brought him with me. He is waiting 
there \_jerking his thumb over his shoulder} under guard. 

CiESAR. And you want me to see him? 

RUFIO \_obstinately'\ I dont want anything. I daresay you 
will do what you like. Dont put it on to me. 

c^SAR \zvith an air of doing it expressly to indulge RuJio'\ 
Well, well: let us have him. 

RUFio \calling~\ Ho there, guard! Release your man and 
send him up. ^Beckoning']. Come along! 

Pothinus enters and stops mistrustfully between the two, 
looking from one to the other, 

CJESAR \_graciously'\ Ah, Pothinus! You are welcome. 
And what is the news this afternoon? 

POTHINUS. Cassar: I come to warn you of a danger, and 
to make you an offer. 

c^SAR. Never mind the danger. Make the offer. 

RUFIO. Never mind the offer. Whats the danger? 

POTHINUS. Caesar: you think that Cleopatra is devoted 
to you. 

c^SAR \gravely\ My friend: I already know what I 
think. Come to your offer. 

POTHINUS. I will deal plainly. I know not by what 
strange gods you have been enabled to defend a palace and 
a few yards of beach against a city and an army. Since we 
cut you off from Lake Mareotis, and you dug wells in the 
salt sea sand and brought up buckets of fresh water from 
them, we have known that your gods are irresistible, and 
that you are a worker of miracles. I no longer threaten 
you — 



1 82 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

RUFio [sarcasfica//y^ Very handsome of you, indeed. 

poTHiNus. So be it: you are the master. Our gods sent 
the north west winds to keep you in our hands; but you 
have been too strong for them. 

CiESAR l^gcTit/y urging him to come to the point'^ Yes, yes, 
my friend. But what then? 

RUFIO. Spit it out, man. What have you to say.? 

POTHINUS. I have to say that you have a traitress in 
your camp. Cleopatra — 

THE MAjOR-DOMO [^/ the table y atinouncing\ The Queen! 
\Casar and Rufio rise]. 

RUFIO \_asi(ie to Pothinus~\ You should have spat it out 
sooner, you fool. Now it is too late. 

Cleopatra, in gorgeous raiment, enters in state through 
the gap in the colonnade, and comes down past the image of 
Ra and past the table to C^sar. Her retinue, headed by 
Ftatateeta, joins the staff at the table. Casar gives Cleopatra 
his seat, which she takes. 

CLEOPATRA \_quickly, seeing Pothinus] What is he doing 
here? 

c^SAR [^seating himself beside her, in the most amiable of 
tempers'] Just going to tell me something about you. You 
shall hear it. Proceed, Pothinus. 

POTHINUS \^disconcerted] Caesar — \he stammers], 

CiESAR. Well, out with it. 

POTHINUS. What I have to say is for your ear, not for 
the Queen's. 

CLEOPATRA \with subdued ferocity] There are means of 
making you speak. Take care. 

POTHINUS [defiantly'] Caesar does not employ those 
means. 

cmskK. My friend: when a man has anything to tell in 
this world, the difficulty is not to make him tell it, but to - 
prevent him from telling it too often. Let me celebrate my 
birthday by setting you free. Farewell: we shall not meet 
again. 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 183 

CLEOPATRA [arigri/y'j Caesar: this mercy is foolish, 

POTHINUS [io Ccesar] Will you not give me a private 
audience? Your life may depend on it. ^Casar rises loftily\. 

RUFio \_aside to Pothinus} Ass! Now we shall have some 
heroics. 

CuESAR ]^oratorh\^IIy\ Pothinus — 

RUFIO [interrupting hirn^ Caesar: the dinner will spoil if 
you begin preaching your favourite sermon about life and 
death. 

CLEOPATRA \_priggishly'\ Peace, Rufio. 1 desire to hear 
Caesar. 

RUFIO [bluntly^ Your Majesty has heard it before. You 
repeated it to Apollodorus last week; and he thought it was 
all your own. [^desar' s dignity collapses. Much tickled, he 
sits down again and looks roguishly at Cleopatra y who is 
furious. Rufa calls as before"] Ho there, guard! Pass the 
prisoner out. He is released. \To Pothinus'\ Now off with 
you. You have lost your chance. 

POTHINUS \his temper overcoming his prudence'] I will 
speak. 

c^SAR [to Cleopatra] You see. Torture would not have 
wrung a word from him. 

POTHINUS. C^sar: you have taught Cleopatra the arts by 
which the Romans govern the world. 

CiESAR. Alas! they cannot even govern themselves. 
What then? 

POTHINUS. What then? Are you so besotted with her 
beauty that you do not see that she is impatient to reign in 
Egypt alone, and that her heart is set on your departure? 

CLEOPATRA [f^ising] Liar! 

c^SAR [shocked] What! Protestations! Contradictions! 

CLEOPATRA [ashamed, but trembling with suppressed rage] 
No. I do not deign to contradict. Let him talk. [She sits 
down again] . 

POTHINUS. From her own lips I have heard it. You are 
to be her catspaw: you are to tear the crown from her 



1 84 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

brother's head and set it on her own, delivering us all into 
her hand — delivering yourself also. And then Caesar can 
return to Rome, or depart through the gate of death, which 
is nearer and surer. 

c^SAR \_calmly\ Well, my friend; and is not this very 
natural? 

poTHiNus \^astonished^ Natural! Then you do not resent 
treachery? 

CJESAR. Resent! O thou foolish Egyptian, what have I 
to do with resentment? Do I resent the wind when it 
chills me, or the night when it makes me stumble in the 
darkness? Shall I resent youth when it turns from age, 
and ambition when it turns from servitude? To tell me 
such a story as this is but to tell me that the sun will rise 
to-morrow. 

CLEOPATRA \unable to co?itain herself '\ But it is false — 
false. I swear it. 

c^sAR. It is true, though you swore it a thousand times, 
and believed all you swore. [She is convulsed with emotion. 
To screen her, he rises and takes Pothinus to Rufioy saying\ 
Come, Rufio: let us see Pothinus past the guard. I have 
a word to say to him. \_Aside to them] We must give the 
Queen a moment to recover herself. [Aloud] Come. [He 
takes Pothinus and Rufio out with him, conversing with them 
meanwhile"] . Tell your friends, Pothinus, that they must 
not think I am opposed to a reasonable settlement of the 
country's affairs — [They pass out of hearing], 

CLEOPATRA [in a stifled whisper] Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta. 

FTATATEETA [hurrying to her from the table and petting 
her] Peace, child: be comforted — 

CLEOPATRA [interrupting her] Can they hear us? 

FTATATEETA. No, dear heart, no. 

CLEOPATRA. Listcu to me. If he leaves the Palace alive, 
never see my face again. 

FTATATEETA. He? Poth 

CLEOPATRA [striking her on the mouth] Strike his life out 



Act IV C^sar and Cleopatra 185 

as I strike his name from your lips. Dash him down from 
the wall. Break him on the stones. Kill, kill, kill him. 

FTATATEETA \jhewing all her teetF^ The dog shall perish. 

CLEOPATRA. Fail in this, and you go out from before me 
for ever. 

FTATATEETA [resolutely] So be it. You shall not see my 
face until his eyes are darkened. 

Ccesar comes back, with Jpollodorus, exquisitely dressed, 
and Rufio. 

CLEOPATRA \to Ftatatceta^ Come soon — soon. \Ftatateeta 
turns her meafiing eyes for a moment on her mistress; then 
goes grimly away past Ra and out. Cleopatra runs like a 
gazelle to Casar'] So you have come back to me, Cssar. 
[^Caressingly'^ I thought you were angry. Welcome, Apollo- 
dorus. \_She gives him her hand to kiss, with her other arm 
about Co'sar^. 

APOLLODORUs. Clcopatra grows more womanly beautiful 
from week to week. 

CLEOPATRA. Truth, Apollodorus.? 

APOLLODORUS. Far, far short of the truth! Friend Rufio 
threw a pearl into the sea: Cssar fished up a diamond. 

c^SAR. Cassar fished up a touch of rheumatism, my 
friend. Come: to dinner! to dinner! [They move towards 
the table~\. 

CLEOPATRA \skipping Hkc a young faw}f\ Yes, to dinner. 
I have ordered such a dinner for you, Caesar! 

CiESAR. Ay? What are we to have? 

CLEOPATRA. Peacocks' brains. 

c«SAR \as if his mouth watered] Peacocks' brains, 
Apollodorus! 

APOLLODORUS. Not fof me. Iprefer nightingales' tongues. 
[^He goes to one of the two covers set side by side"] . 

CLEOPATRA. Roast boar, Rufio! 

RUFIO [gluttonously] Good! [He goes to the seat next 
Apollodorus, on his left] . 

CiESAR [looking at his seat, which is at the end of the 



1 86 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

tabky to Ra^s left hand'\ What has become of my leathern 
cushion? 

CLEOPATRA [at the opposite end] I have got new ones for 
you. ^ 

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Thcse cushions, Caesar, are of Maltese 
gauze, stuffed with rose leaves. 

CiESAR. Rose leaves! Am I a caterpillar! [He throws 
the cushions away and seats himself on the leather mattress 
underneath^ 

CLEOPATRA. What a shame! My new cushions! 

THE MAJOR-DOMO \at Casar^ s elbow~\ What shall we 
serve to whet Caesar's appetite? 

CiESAR. What have you got? 

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Sea hedgehogs, black and white sea 
acorns, sea nettles, beccaficoes, purple shellfish — 

c^SAR. Any oysters? 

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Assuredly. 

C-ffiSAR. British oysters? 

THE MAJOR-DOMO [assenting] British oysters, Caesar. 

c-ffiSAR. Oysters, then. [The Major-Domo signs to a 
slave at each order; and the slave goes out to execute //]. I 
have been in Britain — that western land of romance — the 
last piece of earth on the edge of the ocean that surrounds 
the world. I went there in search of its famous pearls. The 
British pearl was a fable; but in searching for it I found the 
British oyster. 

APOLLODORUS. All posterity will bless you for it. [To the 
Major-Domo'] Sea hedgehogs for me. 

RUFio. Is there nothing solid to begin with? 

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Fieldfares with asparagus — 

CLEOPATRA [interrupting] Fattened fowls! have some 
fattened fowls, Rufio. 

RUFIO. Ay, that will do. 

CLEOPATRA [greedily] Fieldfares for me. 

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Caesar will deign to choose his wine? 
Sicilian, Lesbian, Chian — 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 187 

RUFio [contemptuously^ All Greek. 

APOLLODORus. Who would drink Roman wine when he 
could get Greek? Try the Lesbian, Caesar. 

CiESAR. Bring me my barley water. 

RUFIO [with intense disgust'] Ugh ! Bring m e my Falernian. 
[The Falernian is presently brought to him]. 

CLEOPATRA \_pouting] It is waste of time giving you 
dinners, Caesar. My scullions would not condescend to 
your diet. 

c^sAR [relenting] Well, well: let us try the Lesbian. 
[The Major- Domo fills desar^ s goblet; then Cleopatra^ s and 
Apollodorus'' s] . But when I return to Rome, I will make 
laws against these extravagances. I will even get the laws 
carried out. 

CLEOPATRA [coaxtnglj] Never mind. To-day you are to 
be like other people: idle, luxurious, and kind. \She 
stretches her hand to him along the table]. 

c^SAR. Well, for once I will sacrifice my comfort — 
\kissing her hand~\ there ! [He takes a draught of wine] . 
Now are you satisfied? 

CLEOPATRA. And you no longer believe that I long for 
your departure for Rome? 

c^SAR. I no longer believe anything. My brains are 
asleep. Besides, who knows whether I shall return to Rome? 

RUFIO [alarmed] How? Eh? What? 

c^SAR. What has Rome to shew me that I have not 
seen already? One year of Rom.e is like another, except 
that I grow older, whilst the crowd in the Appian Way is 
always the same age. 

APOLLODORUS. It is no better here in Egypt. The old 
men, when they are tired of life, say **We have seen 
everything except the source of the Nile." 

c^sAR [his imagination catching fire] And why not see 
that? Cleopatra: will you come with me and track the 
flood to its cradle in the heart of the regions of mystery? 
Shall we leave Rome behind us — Rome, that has achieved 



1 88 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

greatness only to learn how greatness destroys nations of 
men who arv; not great! Shall I make you a new kingdom, 
and build you a holy city there in the great unknown? 

CLEOPATRA [rapturously^ Yes, yes. You shall. 

RUFio. Ay: now he will conquer Africa with two 
legions before we come to the roast boar. 

APOLLODORus. Come: no scoffing. This is a noble 
scheme: in it Csesar is no longer merely the conquering 
soldier, but the creative poet-artist. Let us name the holy 
city, and consecrate it with Lesbian wine. 

c^SAR. Cleopatra shall name it herself. 

CLEOPATRA. It shall be called Cassar's Gift to his 
Beloved. 

APOLLODORUS. No, no. Something vaster than that — 
something universal, like the starry firmament. 

c^SAR [prosaically] Why not simply The Cradle of the 
Nile.? 

CLEOPATRA. No: the Nile is my ancestor; and he is a 
god. Oh! I have thought of something. The Nile shall 
name it himself. Let us call upon him. [To the Major- 
Domo"] Send for him. [The three men stare at one another; 
but the Major-Domo goes out as if he had received the most 
matter-of-fact order]. And [to the retinue] away with you all. 

The retinue withdraws, making obeisance. 

A priest enters, carrying a miniature sphinx with a tiny 
tripod before it, A morsel of incense is smoking in the tripod. 
The priest comes to the table and places the image in the 
middle of it. The light begins to change to the magenta purple 
of the Egyptian sunset, as if the god had brought a strange 
colored shadow with him. The three men are determined not 
to be impressed; but they feel curious in spite of themselves. 

C-ffiSAR. What hocus-pocus is this.'' 

CLEOPATRA. You shall see. And it is not hocus-pocus. 
To do it properly, we should kill something to please him; 
but perhaps he will answer Caesar without that if we spill 
some wine to him. 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 189 

APOLLODORUs [turntfig his head to look up over his shoulder 
at Ra^ Why not appeal to our hawkheaded friend here? 

CLEOPATRA \nervously\ Sh! He will hear you and be 
angry. 

RUFio \^phlegmatically\ The source of the Nile is out of 
his district, I expect. 

CLEOPATRA. No: I will have my city named by nobody 
but my dear little sphinx, because it was in its arms that 
Caesar found me asleep. \She languishes at Ccesar ; then 
turns curtly to the priest'] . Go. I am a priestess, and have 
power to take your charge from you. \_The priest makes a 
reverence and goes out]. Now let us call on the Nile all 
together. Perhaps he will rap on the table. 

c^SAR. What! table rapping! Are such superstitions 
still believed in this year 707 of the Republic? 

CLEOPATRA. It is no superstition: our priests learn lots 
of things from the tables. Is it not so, Apollodorus? 

APOLLODORUS. Yes: I profess myself a converted man. 
When Cleopatra is priestess, Apollodorus is devotee. Pro- 
pose the conjuration. 

CLEOPATRA. You must Say with me **Send us thy voice. 
Father Nile." 

ALL FOUR [^holding their glasses together before the idol'] 
Send us thy voice. Father Nile. 

The death cry of a man in mortal terror and agony answers 
them. Appalledy the men set dozun their glasses^ and listen. 
Silence. The purple deepens in the sky. desar^ glancing at 
CleopatrOy catches her pouring out her wine before the god, 
with gleaming eyes, and mute assurances of gratitude and 
worship. Apollodorus springs up and runs to the edge of the 
roof to peer down and listen. 

CiESAR [looking piercingly at Cleopatra] What was that? 

CLEOPATRA [petulantly] Nothing. They are beating some 
slave. 

CiESAR. Nothing! 

RUFIO. A man with a knife in him, I'll swear. 



190 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

CiESAR [r/^/;?^] A murder! 

APOLLODORUs [at the back, waving his hand for silence^ 
S-sh! Silence. Did you hear that? 

c^sAR. Another cry? 

APOLLODORUS [returning to the table] No, a thud. 
Something fell on the beach, I think. 

RUFio [grim/y, as he rises'] Something with bones in it, 
eh? 

CiESAR [shuddering] Hush, hush, Rufio. [He leaves the 
table and returns to the colonnade: Rufio following at his left 
elbow i and Apollodorus at the other side] . 

CLEOPATRA [stUl in her place at the table] Will you leave 
me, Caesar? Apollodorus: are you going? 

APOLLODORUS. Faith, dearest Queen, my appetite is gone. 

CiESAR. Go down to the courtyard, Apollodorus; and 
find out what has happened. 

Apollodorus nods and goes outy making for the staircase by 
which Rufio ascended. 

CLEOPATRA. Your soldiers have killed somebody, perhaps. 
What does it matter? 

The murmur of a crowd rises from the beach below, 
Casar and Rufio look at one another. 

c-ffiSAR. This must be seen to. [He is about to follow 
Apollodorus when Rufio stops him with a hand on his arm as 
Ftatateeta comes back by the far end of the roof, with dragging 
stepsy a drowsy satiety in her eyes and in the corners of the 
bloodhound lips. For a moment Casar suspects that she is 
drunk with wine. Not so Rufio: he knows well the red vintage 
that has inebriated her] . 

RUFIO [in a low tone] There is some mischief between 
those two. 

FTATATEETA. The Qucen looks again on the face of her 
servant. 

Cleopatra looks at her for a moment with an exultant 
refection of her murderous expression. Then she flings her 
arms round her ; kisses her repeatedly and savagely ; and tears 



Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 191 

off her jewels and heaps them on her. The two men turn from 
the spectacle to look at one another. Ftatateeta drags herself 
sleepily to the altar ; kneels before Ra ; and remains there in 
prayer. desar goes to Cleopatra y leaving Rufio in the 
colonnade. 

c^sAR \with searching earnestness^ Cleopatra: what has 
happened? 

CLEOPATRA [/» mortal dread of him^ but with her utmost 
cajolery'^ Nothing, dearest Csesar. [fFith sickly sweetness, 
her voice almost failing'] Nothing. I am innocent. [She 
approaches him affectionate ly'\. Dear Caesar: are you angry 
with me.? Why do you look at me so? I have been here 
with you all the time. How can I know what has happened? 

CiESAR [reflectively'] That is true. 

CLEOPATRA [greatly relieved, trying to caress hik\ Of 
course it is true. [He does not respond to the caress] . You 
know it is true, Rufio. 

The murmur without suddenly swells to a roar and sub- 
sides. 

RUFIO. I shall know presently. [He makes for the altar 
in the burly trot that serves him for a stride, and touches 
Ftatateeta on the shoulder]. Now, mistress: I shall want 
you. [He orders her, with a gesture, to go before him], 

FTATATEETA [rising and glowering at him] My place is 
with the Queen. 

CLEOPATRA. She has done no harm, Rufio. 

CiESAR [to Rufio~\ Let her stay. 

RUFIO [sitting down on the altar'] Very well. Then my 
place is here too; and you can see what is the matter for 
yourself. The city is in a pretty uproar, it seems. 

CiESAR [with grave displeasure] Rufio: there is a time for 
obedience. 

RUFIO. And there is a time for obstinacy. [He folds his 
arms doggedly'\ . 

CiESAR [to Cleopatra] Send her away. 

CLEOPATRA [whining in her eagerness to propitiate him'J 



192 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

Yes, I will. I will do whatever you ask me, Csesar, always, 
because I love you. Ftatateeta: go away. 

FTATATEETA. The Quccn's word is my will. I shall be 
at hand for the Queen's call. [^S be goes out past Ra, as she 
came]. 

RUFio \_following her] Remember, Ciesar, your body- 
guard also is within call. \He follows her out]. 

Cleopatra, presuming upon Casar" s submission to Rufio, 
leaves the table and sits down on the bench in the colonnade. 

CLEOPATRA. Why do you allow Rufio to treat you so? 
You should teach him his place. 

CiESAR. Teach him to be my enemy, and to hide his 
thoughts from me as you are now hiding yours. 

CLEOPATRA \her fears returning] Why do you say that, 
Caesar.!* Indeed, indeed, I am not hiding anything. You 
are wrong to treat me like this. \She stifles a sob] . I am 
only a child; and you turn into stone because you think 
some one has been killed. I cannot bear it. [She purposely 
breaks down and weeps. He looks at her with profound sadness 
and complete coldness. She looks up to see what effect she is 
producing. Seeing that he is unmoved, she sits up, pretending 
to struggle with her emotion and to put it bravely away]. 
But there: I know you hate tears: you shall not be troubled 
with them. I know you are not angry, but only sad; only 
I am so silly, I cannot help being hurt when you speak 
coldly. Of course you are quite right: it is dreadful to think 
of anyone being killed or even hurt; and I hope nothing 
really serious has — \her voice dies away under his con- 
temptuous penetration] . 

c^sAR. What has frightened you into this? What have 
you done? [A trumpet sounds on the beach below]. Aha! 
that sounds like the answer. 

CLEOPATRA [sinking back trembling on the bench and cov- 
ering her face with her hands] I have not betrayed you, 
Caesar: I swear it. 

cjESAR. I know that. I have not trusted you. [He turns 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 193 

from hery and is about to go out when Apollodorus and 
Br it annus drag in Lucius Septimius to him. Rujio follows. 
Casar shudders'^. Again, Pompey's murderer! 

RUFio. The town has gone mad, I think. They are for 
tearing the palace down and driving us into the sea straight 
away. We laid hold of this renegade in clearing them out 
of the courtyard. 

CiESAR. Release him. \The;^ let go his arms^ What has 
offended the citizens, Lucius Septimius? 

LUCIUS. What did you expect, Caesar? Pothinus was a 
favorite of theirs. 

c^SAR. What has happened to Pothinus? I set him free, 
here, not half an hour ago. Did they not pass him out? 

LUCIUS. Ay, through the gallery arch sixty feet above 
ground, with three inches of steel in his ribs. He is as dead 
as Pompey. We are quits now, as to killing — you and I. 

c.^sAR \^shocked^ Assassinated! — our prisoner, our guest! 
[//<? turTis reproachfully on Rufio'] Rufio — 

RUFIO ^emphatically — anticipating the questio7i\ Whoever 
did it was a wise man and a friend of yours \Cleopatra is 
greatly emboldened^', but none of us had a hand in it. So 
it is no use to frown at me. \Ccesar turns and looks at 
Cleopatra^. 

CLEOPATRA [violently — rising^ He was slain by order of 
the Queen of Egypt. I am not Julius Caesar the dreamer, 
who allows every slave to insult him. Rufio has said I did 
well: now the others shall judge me too. [She turns to the 
others, j This Pothinus sought to make me conspire with 
him to betray C^sar to Achillas and Ptolemy. I refused; 
and he cursed me and came privily to Caesar to accuse me 
of his own treachery. I caught him in the act; and he 
insulted me — me, the Queen! to my face. Caesar would 
not avenge me: he spoke him fair and set him free. Was I 
right to avenge myself? Speak, Lucius. 

LUCIUS. I do not gainsay it, But you will get little 
thanks from Csesar for it. 



194 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

CLEOPATRA. Speak, Apollodorus. Was I wrong? 

APOLLODORUS. I havc only one word of blame, most 
beautiful. You should have called upon me, your knight; 
and in fair duel I should have slain the slanderer. 

CLEOPATRA [^passiofiately] I will be judged by your very 
slave, Caesar. Britannus: speak. Was I wrong? 

BRiTANNUS. Were treachery, falsehood, and disloyalty 
left unpunished, society must become like an arena full of 
wild beasts, tearing one another to pieces. Caesar is in the 
wrong. 

ciESAR [with quiet bitterness] And so the verdict is against 
me, it seems. 

CLEOPATRA [vehemently] Listen to me, Caesar. If one 
man in all Alexandria can be found to say that I did wrong, 
I swear to have myself crucified on the door of the palace 
by my own slaves. 

CiESAR. If one man in all the world can be found, now 
or forever, to know that you did wrong, that man will 
have either to conquer the world as I have, or be crucified 
by it. [ The uproar in the streets again reaches them] . Do 
you hear? These knockers at your gate are also believers in 
vengeance and in stabbing. You have slain their leader: it 
is right that they shall slay you. If you doubt it, ask your 
four counsellors here. And then in the name of that right 
[he emphasizes the word with great scorn] shall I not slay 
them for murdering their Queen, and be slain in my turn by 
their countrymen as the invader of their fatherland? Can 
Rome do less then than slay these slayers too, to shew the 
world how Rome avenges her sons and her honor? And so, 
to the end of history, murder shall breed murder, always in 
the name of right and honor and peace, until the gods are 
tired of blood and create a race that can understand. [Fierce 
uproar. Cleopatra becomes white with terror] . Hearken, you 
who must not be insulted. Go near enough to catch their 
words: you will find them bitterer than the tongue of 
Pothinus. [Loftily wrapping himself up in an impenetrable 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 195 

dignity]. Let the Queen of Egypt now give her orders for 
vengeance, and take her measures for defence; for she has 
renounced Caesar. [He turns to go] . 

CLEOPATRA [teri'tfied, running to him and falling on her 
knees] You will not desert me, Csesar. You will defend the 
palace. 

c^sAR. You have taken the powers of life and death 
upon you. I am only a dreamer. 

CLEOPATRA. But they will kill me. 

CiESAR. And why not.'' 

CLEOPATRA. In pity — 

C^SAR. Pity! What! has it come to this so suddenly, that 
nothing can save you now but pity.'' Did it save Pothinus? 

8he rises i wringing her hands, and goes back to the bench 
in despair, Apollodorus shews his sympathy with her by quietly 
posting himself behind the bench. The sky has by this time 
become the most vivid purple, and soon begins to change to a 
glowing pale orange, against which the colonnade and the great 
image show darklier and darklier. 

RUFio. Caesar: enough of preaching. The enemy is at 
the gate. 

c^SAR Sjurningon him and giving way to his wrath] Ay; 
and what has held him baffled at the gate all these months? 
Was it my folly, as you deem it, or your wisdom? In this 
Egyptian Red Sea of blood, whose hand has held all your 
heads above the waves? [^Turning on Cleopatra] And yet, 
when Caesar says to such an one, ''Friend, go free," you, 
cHnging for your little life to my sword, dare steal out and 
stab him in the back? And you, soldiers and gentlemen, 
and honest servants as you forget that you are, applaud this 
assassination, and say **Cassar is in the wrong." By the 
gods, I am tempted to open my hand and let you all sink 
into the flood. 

CLEOPATRA \with a ray of cunning hope] But, Csesar, if 
you do, you will perish yourself. 

Casar'* s eyes blaze. 



196 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

RUFio [great/y alarmed^ Now, by great Jove, you filthy 
little Egyptian rat, that is the very word to make him walk 
out alone into the city and leave us here to be cut to pieces. 
\^Desperatelyy to Ccesar^ Will you desert us because we are 
a parcel of fools? I mean no harm by kilhng: I do it as a 
dog kills a cat, by instinct. We are all dogs at your heels; 
but we have served you faithfully. 

c^SAR [relenting] Alas, Rufio, my son, my son: as 
dogs we are Hke to perish now in the streets. 

APOLLODORUs [/?/ his post behind Cleopatra' s seat] Cassar, 
what you say has an Olympian ring in it: it must be right; 
for it is fine art. But I am still on the side of Cleopatra. 
If we must die, she shall not want the devotion of a man's 
heart nor the strength of a man's arm. 

CLEOPATRA [^soUing] But I dont want to die. 

CiESAR [sadly'] Oh, ignoble, ignoble! 

LUCIUS [^coming forward between Casar and Cleopatra] 
Hearken to me, Caesar. It may be ignoble; but I also mean 
to live as long as I can. 

c^SAR. Well, my friend, you are likely to outlive Caesar. 
Is it any magic of mine, think you, that has kept your army 
and this whole city at bay for so long? Yesterday, what 
quarrel had they with me that they should risk their lives 
against me? But today we have flung them down their hero, 
murdered; and now every man of them is set upon clearing 
out this nest of assassins — for such we are and no more. 
Take courage then; and sharpen your sword. Pompey's 
head has fallen; and Caesar's head is ripe. 

APOLLODORUS. Does Cassar despair? 

CiESAR \_with infinite pride] He who has never hoped can 
never despair. Cssar, in good or bad fortune, looks his 
fate in the face. 

LUCIUS. Look it in the face, then; and it will smile as 
it always has on Cassar. 

c^sAR \with involuntary haughtiness] Do you presume 
to encourage me? 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 197 

LUCIUS. I offer you my services. I will change sides if you 
will have me. 

CiESAR \_suddenly coming down to earth again, and looking 
sharply at him, divining that there is something behind the 
offer'\ What! At this point? 

LUCIUS \firmly^ At this point. 

RUFio. Do you suppose Csesar is mad, to trust you? 

LUCIUS. I do not ask him to trust me until he is victori- 
ous. I ask for my life, and for a command in Caesar^s army. 
And since Caesar is a fair dealer, I will pay in advance. 

CiESAR. Pay! How? 

LUCIUS. With a piece of good news for you. 

Ccssar divines the news in a fiash, 

RUFIO. What news? 

CiESAR \with an elate and buoyant energy which makes 
Cleopatra sit up and stare'\ What news ! What news, did you 
say, my son Rufio? The relief has arrived: what other 
news remains for us? Is it not so, Lucius Septimius? Mith- 
ridates of Pergamos is on the march. 

LUCIUS. He has taken Pelusium. 

c^sAR \delighted'\ Lucius Septimius: you are henceforth 
my officer. Rufio: the Egyptians must have sent every 
soldier from the city to prevent Mithridates crossing the 
Nile. There is nothing in the streets now but mob — mob ! 

LUCIUS, It is so. Mithridates is marching by the great 
road to Memphis to cross above the Delta. Achillas will 
fight him there. 

c^SAR \_all audacity^ Achillas shall fight Caesar there. 
See, Rufio. \He runs to the table; snatches a napkin; and 
draws a plan on it with his finger dipped in zuine, whilst Rufio 
and Lucius Septimius crowd about him to watch, all looking 
closely, for the light is now almost gone"^ . Here is the palace 
[pointing to his plan^ : here is the theatre. You \_to Rufio] 
take twenty men and pretend to go by that street \_pointing 
it out]', and whilst they are stoning you, out go the cohorts 
by this and this. My streets are right, are they, Lucius? 



198 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV 

LUCIUS. Ay, that is the fig market — 

ciESAR [/(9(7 much excited to listen to him^ I saw them the 
day we arrived. Good! [//<? throws the napkin on the table 
and comes down again into the colonnade^ . Away, Britan- 
nus: tell Petronius that within an hour half our forces must 
take ship for the western lake. See to my horse and armor. 
[Britannus runs out.^ With the rest, / shall march round the 
lake and up the Nile to meet Mithridates. Away, Lucius; 
and give the word. 

Lucius hurries out after Britannus. 

RUFio, Come: this is something like business. 

c^SAR \buoyantlj\ Is it not, my only son? \He claps 
his hands. The slaves hurry in tothe table,^ No more of this 
mawkish revelling: away with all this stuff: shut it out of 
my sight and be off with you. \^The slaves begin to remove 
the table; and the curtains are drawn, shutting in the colon- 
nadel^. You understand about the streets, Rufio? 

RUFIO. Ay, I think I do. I will get through them, at 
all events. 

The bucina sounds busily in the courtyard beneath, 

CiESAR. Come, then: we must talk to the troops and 
hearten them. You down to the beach: I to the courtyard. 
\He makes for the staircase^ . 

CLEOPATRA [rising from her seat, where she has been quite 
neglected all this time, and stretching out her hands timidly to 
hini\ Caesar. 

c^SAR \turning\ Eh? 

CLEOPATRA. Havc you forgotten me? 

CiESAR [indulgently^^ I am busy now, my child, busy. 
When I return your affairs shall be settled. Farewell; and 
be good and patient. 

He goes, preoccupied and quite indifferent. She stands 
with clenched fistSy in speechless rage and humiliation. 

RUFIO. That game is played and lost, Cleopatra. The 
woman always gets the worst of it. 

CLEOPATRA [haughtily'] Go. Follow your master. 



Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 199 

RUFio [in her ear^ with rough familiar itj\ A word first. 
Tell your executioner that if Pothinus had been properly- 
killed — in the throat — he would not have called out. 
Your man bungled his work. 

CLEOPATRA [enigmatically^ How do you know it was a 
man.? 

RUFIO \jtartledy and puzzled^ It was not you: you were 
with us when it happened. [She turns her back scornfully on 
him. He shakes his heady and draws the curtains to go out. 
It is now a magnificent moonlit night. The table has been 
removed. Ftatateeta is seen in the light of the moon and 
stars, again in prayer before the white altar-stone of Ra. 
Rufio starts ; closes the curtains again softly ; and says in a low 
voice to Cleopatra^ Was it she? with her own hand.? 

CLEOPATRA [threateningly'] Whoever it was, let my 
enemies beware of her. Look to it, Rufio, you who dare 
make the Queen of Egypt a fool before Csesar. 

RUFIO [looking grimly at her'\ I will look to it, Cleo- 
patra. [//(? nods in confirmation of the promise, and slips out 
through the curtains, loosening his sword in its sheath as he 
goes}. 

ROMAN SOLDIERS [in the courtyard below'] Hail, C^sar! 
Hail, hail! 

Cleopatra listens. The bucina sounds again, followed by 
several trumpets. 

CLEOPATRA [wringing her hands and calling] Ftatateeta. 
Ftatateeta. It is dark; and I am alone. Come to me. 
[Silence] Ftatateeta. [Louder] Ftatateeta. [Silence. In a 
panic she snatches the cord and pulls the curtains apart] . 

Ftatateeta is lying dead on the altar of Ra, with her 
throat cut. Her blood deluges the white stone. 



ACT V 

High noon. Festival and military pageant on the esplanade 
before the palace. In the east harbor Casar' s galley ^ so 
gorgeously decorated that it seems to be rigged with flowers, 
is alongside the quay, close to the steps Apollodorus descended 
when he embarked with the carpet. A Roman guard is posted 
there in charge of a gangway, whence a red floorcloth is laid 
down the middle of the esplanade, turning off to the north 
opposite the central gate in the palace front, which shuts in 
the esplanade on the south side. The broad steps of the gate, 
crowded with Cleopatra'' s ladies, all in their gayest attire, 
are like a flower garden. The facade is lined by her guard, 
oflicered by the same gallants to whom Bel Affris announced 
the coming of Casar six months before in the old palace on 
the Syrian border. The north side is lined by Roman soldiers, 
with the townsfolk on tiptoe behind them, peering over their 
heads at the cleared esplanade, in which the oflicers stroll 
about, chatting. Among these are Belzanor and the Persian; 
also the centurion, vinewood cudgel in hand, battle worn, 
thick-booted, and much outshone, both socially and decoratively, 
by the Egyptian oflicers. 

Apollodorus makes his way through the townsfolk and calls 
to the oflicers from behind the Roman line. 

APOLLODORUS. Hullo! May I pass? 

CENTURION. Pass Apollodorus the Sicilian there! \The 
soldiers let him through~\ . 

BELZANOR. Is Caesar at hand? 

APOLLODORUS. Not yet. He is still in the market place. 
I could not Stand any more of the roaring of the soldiers! 



Act V Caesar and Cleopatra 201 

After half an hour of the enthusiasm of an army, one feels 
the need of a little sea air. 

PERSIAN. Tell us the news. Hath he slain the priests? 

APOLLODORus. Not he. They met him in the market 
place with ashes on their heads and their gods in their 
hands. They placed the gods at his feet. The only one that 
was worth looking at was Apis: a miracle of gold and ivory 
work. By my advice he offered the chief priest two talents 
for it. 

BELZANOR [appalled^ Apis the all-knowing for two talents! 
What said the chief Priest? 

APOLLODORUS. He invokcd the mercy of Apis, and asked 
for five. 

BELZANOR. There will be famine and tempest in the land 
for this. 

PERSIAN. Pooh! Why did not Apis cause Caesar to be 
vanquished by Achillas? Any fresh news from the war, 
Apollodorus? 

APOLLODORUS. The little King Ptolemy was drowned. 

BELZANOR. Drowncd! How? 

APOLLODORUS. With the rest of them. C^sar attacked 
them from three sides at once and swept them into the 
Nile. Ptolemy's barge sank. 

BELZANOR. A marvclous man, this Cassar! Will he come 
soon, think you? 

APOLLODORUS. He was settling the Jewish question when 
I left. 

A flourish of trumpets from the north, and commotion 
among the townsfolk, announces the approach of Ccesar. 

PERSIAN. He has made short work of them. Here he 
comes. [He hurries to his post in front of the Egyptian lines^. 

BELZANOR \^ following him'\ Ho there! Caesar comes. 

The soldiers stand at attention, and dress their lines. 
Apollodorus goes to the Egyptian line. 

CENTURION \hurrying to the gangway guard'j Attention 
there! Caesar comes. 



202 Three Plays for Puritans Act V 

Casar arrives i?i state with Rufo: Britannus following. 
The soldiers receive him with enthusiastic shouting. 

c^SAR. I see my ship awaits me. The hour of Caesar's 
farewell to Egypt has arrived. And now, Rufio, what 
remains to be done before I go? 

RUFio \_at his left hand'\ You have not yet appointed a 
Roman governor for this province. 

CiESAR \_loohng whimsically at him, but speaking with 
perfect gravity^ What say you to Mithridates of Pergamos, 
my reliever and rescuer, the great son of Eupator? 

RUFIO. Why, that you will want him elsewhere. Do 
you forget that you have some three or four armies to con- 
quer on your way home? 

CiESAR. Indeed! Well, what say you to yourself? 

RUFIO \_in credulously^ I! la governor! What are you 
dreaming of? Do you not know that I am only the son of 
a freedman? 

CiESAR \affectionatelj\ Has not Caesar called you his son? 
\Calling to the whole assembly] Peace awhile there; and 
hear me. 

THE ROMAN SOLDIERS. Hear Caesar. 

c^SAR. Hear the service, quality, rank and name of the 
Roman governor. By service, Caesar's shield; by quality, 
Caesar's friend; by rank, a Roman soldier. [The Roman 
soldiers give a triumphant shout']. By name, Rufio. [They 
shout again]. 

RUFIO [kissing C^esar^s hand] Ay: I am Caesar's shield; 
but of what use shall I be when I am no longer on Caesar's 
arm? Well, no matter — [He becomes husky y and turns away 
to recover himself] . 

CiESAR. Where is that British Islander of mine? 

BRITANNUS [coming forward on Ccesar^s right hand] 
Here, Caesar. 

CiESAR. Who bade you, pray, thrust yourself into 
the battle of the Delta, uttering the barbarous cries of 
your native land, and affirming yourself a match for any 



Act V Ccesar and Cleopatra 203 

four of the Egyptians, to whom you applied unseemly- 
epithets? 

BRiTANNUS. CaEsar: I ask you to excuse the language that 
escaped me in the heat of the moment. 

c^sAR. And how did you, who cannot swim, cross the 
canal with us when we stormed the camp? 

BRITANNUS. C^sar: I clung to the tail of your horse. 

CiESAR. These are not the deeds of a slave, Britannicus, 
but of a free man. 

BRITANNUS. Cassar: I was born free. 

CiESAR. But they call you Caesar's slave. 

BRITANNUS. Only as Caesar's slave have I found real 
freedom. 

c^SAR ^moveJ^ Well said. Ungrateful that I am, I was 
about to set you free; but now I will not part from you for 
a million talents. \_He claps him friendl;^ on the shoulder. 
BritannuSy gratified^ but a trifle shamefaced, takes his hand 
and kisses it sheepishly^ , 

BELZANOR [/i? the Persian~\ This Roman knows how to 
make men serve him, 

PERSIAN. Ay: men too humble to become dangerous 
rivals to him. 

BELZANOR. O subtle onc ! O cynic! 

CESAR [^seeing Apollodorus in the Egyptian corner and 
calling to him~\ Apollodorus: I leave the art of Egypt in 
your charge. Remember: Rome loves art and will en- 
courage it ungrudgingly. 

APOLLODORUS. I understand, Csesar. Rome will produce 
no art itself; but it will buy up and take away whatever the 
other nations produce. 

CiESAR, What! Rome produce no art! Is peace not an 
art? is war not an art? is government not an art? is civili- 
zation not an art? All these we give you in exchange for a 
few ornaments. You will have the best of the bargain. 
[Turning to Rufio\_ And now, what else have I to do before 
I embark? [Trying to recollect'^ There is something I can- 



204 Three Plays for Puritans Act V 

not remember; what can it be? Well, well: it must re- 
main undone: we must not waste this favorable wind. 
Farewell, Rufio. 

RUFio. Caesar: I am loth to let you go to Rome with- 
out your shield. There are too many daggers there. 

c^SAR. It matters not: I shall finish my life's work on 
my way back; and then I shall have lived long enough. 
Besides: I have always disliked the idea of dying: I had 
rather be killed. Farewell. 

RUFIO ^zvitb a sigb, raising his hands and giving Casar 
up as incorrigible^ Farewell. [They shake hands'^, 

c^SAR \zuaving his hand to Apollodorus~\ Farewell, 
Apollodorus, and my friends, all of you. Aboard! 

The gangway is run out from the quay to the ship. As 
Casar moves towards //, Cleopatra^ cold and tragic y cunningly 
dressed in blacky without ornaments or decoration of any kind, 
and thus making a striking figure among the brilliantly dressed 
bevy of ladies as she passes through /V, comes from the palace 
and stands on the steps. Casar does not see her until she 
speaks. 

CLEOPATRA. Has Clcopatra no part in this leave taking? 

CiESAR \jnlightened\ Ah, I k n e w there was something. 
[ 7'(? Rufio\ How could you let me forget her, Rufio? 
[Hastening to her'\ Had I gone without seeing you, I should 
never have forgiven myself. [He takes her hands, and brings 
her into the middle of the esplanade. She submits stonily'\. Is 
this mourning for me? 

CLEOPATRA. No. 

CiESAR [remorsefully~\ Ah, that was thoughtless of me! 
It is for your brother. 

CLEOPATRA. No. 

c^sAR. For whom, then? 

CLEOPATRA. Ask the Roman governor whom you have 
left us. 

ciESAR. Rufio? 

CLEOPATRA. Yes: Rufio. [She points at him with deadly 



Act V Cassar and Cleopatra 205 

scorn'l. He who is to rule here in Caesar's name, in Caesar's 
way, according to Caesar's boasted laws of life. 

c^sAR [(^ui^ious/y'j He is to rule as he can, Cleopatra. 
He has taken the work upon him, and will do it in his own 
way. 

CLEOPATRA. Not in your way, then? 

CJESAR [jfuzz/e^] What do you mean by my way? 

CLEOPATRA. Without punishment. Without revenge. 
Without judgment. 

c^SAR. [^approvingly^ Ay, that is the right way, the great 
way, the only possible way in the end. [ To Rujio^ Believe 
ft, Rufio, if you can. 

RUFio. W^hy, I believe it, Caesar. You have convinced 
me ^ it long ago. But look you. You are sailing for 
Nuimdia to-day. Now tell me: if you meet a hungry lion 
there, you will not punish it for wanting to eat you? 

c^SAR [wondering what he is driving at'\ No. 

RUFIO. Nor revenge upon it the blood of those it has 
already eaten. 

CiESAR. No. 

RUFIO. Nor judge it for its guiltiness. 

CiESAR. No. 

RUFIO. What, then, will you do to save your life from it? 

c^SAR [promptly^ Kill it, man, without malice, just as 
it would kill me. What does this parable of the lion mean? 

RUFIO. Why, Cleopatra had a tigress that killed men at 
her bidding. I thought she might bid it kill you some day. 
Well, had I not been Caesar's pupil, what pious things 
might I not have done to that tigress? I might have pun- 
ished it. I might have revenged Pothinus on it. 

C^SAR \interjects\ Pothinus! 

RUFIO \continuing'\ I might have judged it. But I put 
all these follies behind me; and, without malice, only cut 
its throat. And that is why Cleopatra comes to you in 
mourning. 

CLEOPATRA \yehemently'\ He has shed the blood of my 



2o6 Three Plays for Puritans Act V 

servant Ftatateeta. On your head be it as upon his, Caesar, 
if you hold him free of it. 

c^SAR [^efiergetically^ On my head be it, then; for it was 
well done. Rufio: had you set yourself in the seat of the 
judge, and with hateful ceremonies and appeals to the gods 
handed that woman over to some hired executioner to be 
slain before the people in the name of justice, never again 
would I have touched your hand without a shudder. But 
this was natural slaying: I feel no horror at it. 

Rufio, satisfied y nods at Cleopatra, mutely inviting her to 
mark that. ^ 

CLEOPATRA \pettish and childish in her impotence^ N* 
not when a Roman slays an Egyptian. All the world will 
now see how unjust and corrupt Cccsar is. ^ " 

c^SAR \taking her hands coaxingly\ Come: do Wt be 
angry with me. I am sorry for that poor Totateeta. \^She 
laughs in spite of hers elf ~\. Aha! you are laughing. Does 
that mean reconciliation? 

CLEOPATRA \jingry with herself for laughing^ No, no, 
NO!! But it is so ridiculous to hear you call her Totateeta. 

c^SAR. What! As much a child as ever, Cleopatra! 
Have I not made a woman of you after all? 

CLEOPATRA. Oh, it is you who are a great baby: you 
make me seem silly because you will not behave seriously. 
But you have treated me badly; and I do not forgive you. 

c^SAR. Bid me farewell. 

CLEOPATRA. I will nOt. 

c^sAR \^coaxing'\ I will send you a beautiful present 
from Rome. 

CLEOPATRA ^^proudly^^ Beauty from Rome to Egypt 
indeed! What can Rome give me that Egypt cannot give 
me? 

APOLLODORUs. That is true, Caesar. If the present is 
to be really beautiful, I shall have to buy it for you in 
Alexandria. 

CiESAR. You are forgetting the treasures for which Rome 



Act V Cassar and Cleopatra 207 

is most famous, my friend. You cannot buy them in 
Alexandria. 

APOLLODORus. What are they, Caesar? 

CiESAR. Her sons. Come, Cleopatra: forgive me and 
bid me farewell; and I will send you a man, Roman from 
head to heel and Roman of the noblest; not old and ripe 
for the knife; not lean in the arms and cold in the heart; 
not hiding a bald head under his conqueror's laurels; not 
stooped with the weight of the world on his shoulders; but 
brisk and fresh, strong and young, hoping in the morning, 
^hting in the day, and revelling in the evening. Will you 
^ t^e'such an one in exchange for Csesar.? 

• "CLEOPATRA \_palpitating\ His name, his name? 
* • g^AR. Shall it be Mark Antony? [^She throws herself 
intoms arms\ . 

.RUFio. You are a bad hand at a bargain, mistress, if you 
will swop Caesar for Antony. 

CiESAR. So now you are satisfied. 

CLEOPATRA. You will not forget. 

CJESAR. I will not forget. Farewell: I do not think we 
shall meet again. Farewell. \He kisses her on the forehead. 
She is much affected and begins to sniff. He embarks^ 

THE ROMAN SOLDIERS \as he sets his foot on the gangwaf\ 
Hail, Caesar; and farewell! 

He reaches the ship and returns Rufio'' s wave of the hand, 

APOLLODORUS \^to Cleopatro^ No tears, dearest Queen: 
they stab your servant to the heart. He will return some 
day. 

CLEOPATRA. I hope not. But I cant help crying, all the 
same. \_She waves her handkerchief to Casar ; and the ship 
begins to move~\ . 

THE ROMAN SOLDIERS [^drawing their swords and raising 
them in the air'\ Hail, Caesar! 



NOTES TO CiESAR AND CLEOPATRA 

Cleopatra's Cure for Baldness 

For the sake of conciseness in a hurried situation I have 
made Cleopatra recommend rum. This, I am afraid, is-a# 
anachronism: the only real one in the play. To balance 
it, I give a couple of the remedies she actually believedjn. * 
They are quoted by Galen from Cleopatra's boo(Fon 
Cosmetic. 

**For bald patches, powder red sulphuret of arsenic and 
take it up with oak gum, as much as it will bear. Put on 
a rag and apply, having soaped the place well first. I have 
mixed the above with a foam of nitre, and it worked well." 

Several other receipts follow, ending with: **The fol- 
lowing is the best of all, acting for fallen hairs, when 
applied with oil or pomatum; acts also for falling off of 
eyelashes or for people getting bald all over. It is wonderful. 
Of domestic mice burnt, one part; of vine rag burnt, one 
part; of horse's teeth burnt, one part; of bear's grease one; 
of deer's marrow one; of reed bark one. To be pounded 
when dry, and mixed with plenty of honey til it gets the 
consistency of honey; then the bear's grease and marrow to 
be mixed (when melted), the medicine to be put in a brass 
flask, and the bald part rubbed til it sprouts." 

Concerning these ingredients, my fellow -dramatist, 
Gilbert Murray, who, as a Professor of Greek, has applied 
to classical antiquity the methods of high scholarship (my 
own method is pure divination), writes to me as follows: 
**Some of this I dont understand, and possibly Galen did 
208 



Notes 209 

not, as he quotes your heroine's own language. Foam of 
nitre is, I think, something like soapsuds. Reed bark is an 
odd expression. It might mean the outside membrane of a 
reed: I do not know what it ought to be called. In the 
burnt mice receipt I take it that you first mixed the solid 
powders with honey, and then added the grease. I expect 
Cleopatra preferred it because in most of the others you have 
to lacerate the skin, prick it, or rub it till it bleeds. I do 
not know what vine rag is. I translate literally." 



Apparent Anachronisms 

The only way to write a play which shall convey to the 
general public an impression of antiquity is to make the 
characters speak blank verse and abstain from reference to 
steam, telegraphy, or any of the material conditions of their 
existence. The more ignorant men are, the more convinced 
are they that their little parish and their little chapel is an 
apex to which civilization and philosophy have painfully 
struggled up the pyramid of time from a desert of savagery. 
Savagery, they think, became barbarism; barbarism became 
ancient civilization; ancient civilization became Pauline 
Christianity; Pauline Christianity became Roman Catho- 
licism; Roman Catholicism became the Dark Ages; and the 
Dark Ages were finally enlightened by the Protestant instincts 
of the English race. The whole process is summed up as 
Progress with a capital P. And any elderly gentleman of 
Progressive temperament will testify that the improvement 
since he was a boy is enormous. 

Now if we count the generations of Progressive elderly 
gentlemen since, say, Plato, and add together the successive 
enormous improvements to which each of them has testified, 
it will strike us at once as an unaccountable fact that the 
world, instead of having been improved in 67 generations 
out of all recognition, presents, on the whole, a rather less 



2IO Caesar and Cleopatra 

dignified appearance in Ibsen's Enemy of the People than 
in Plato's Republic. And in truth, the period of time 
covered by history is far too short to allow of any perceptible 
progress in the popular sense of Evolution of the Human 
Species. The notion that there has been any such Progress 
since Csesar's time (less than 20 centuries) is too absurd for 
discussion. All the savagery, barbarism, dark ages and the 
rest of it of which we have any record as existing in the 
past, exists at the present moment. A British carpenter or 
stonemason may point out that he gets twice as much money 
for his labor as his father did in the same trade, and that 
his suburban house, with its bath, its cottage piano, its 
drawingroom suite, and its album of photographs, would 
have shamed the plainness of his grandmother's. But the 
descendants of feudal barons, living in squalid lodgings on a 
salary of fifteen shillings a week instead of in castles on 
princely revenues, do not congratulate the world on the 
change. Such changes, in fact, are not to the point. It has 
been known, as far back as our records go, that man running 
wild in the woods is different to man kennelled in a city 
slum; that a dog seems to understand a shepherd better than 
a hewer of wood and drawer of water can understand an 
astronomer; and that breeding, gentle nurture and luxurious 
food and shelter will produce a kind of man with whom the 
common laborer is socially incompatible. The same thing is 
true of horses and dogs. Now there is clearly room for 
great changes in the world by increasing the percentage of 
individuals who are carefully bred and gently nurtured, even 
to finally making the most of every man and woman born. 
But that possibility existed in the days of the Hittites as 
much as it does to-day. It does not give the slightest real 
support to the common assumption that the civilized con- 
temporaries of the Hittites were unlike their civilized 
descendants to-day. 

This would appear the tritest commonplace if it were 
not that the ordinary citizen's ignorance of the past combines 



Notes 211 

with his idealization of the present to mislead and flatter 
him. Our latest book on the new railway across Asia 
describes the dulness of the Siberian farmer and the vulgar 
pursepride of the Siberian man of business without the least 
consciousness that the sting of contemptuous instances given 
might have been saved by writing simply * 'Farmers and 
provincial plutocrats in Siberia are exactly what they are in 
England." The latest professor descanting on the civiliza- 
tion of the Western Empire in the fifth century feels bound 
to assume, in the teeth of his own researches, that the 
Christian was one sort of animal and the Pagan another. It 
might as well be assumed, as indeed it generally is assumed 
by implication, that a murder committed with a poisoned 
arrow is different to a murder committed with a Mauser 
rifle. All such notions are illusions. Go back to the first 
syllable of recorded time, and there you will find your 
Christian and your Pagan, your yokel and your poet, helot 
and hero, Don Quixote and Sancho, Tamino and Papageno, 
Newton and bushman unable to count eleven, all alive and 
contemporaneous, and all convinced that they are the heirs 
of all the ages and the privileged recipients of the truth (all 
others damnable heresies), just as you have them to-day, 
flourishing in countries each of which is the bravest and best 
that ever sprang at Heaven's command from out the azure 
main. 

Again, there is the illusion of *' increased command over 
Nature," meaning that cotton is cheap and that ten miles 
of country road on a bicycle have replaced four on foot. 
But even if man's increased command over Nature included 
any increased command over himself (the only sort of com- 
mand relevant to his evolution into a higher being), the fact 
remains that it is only by running away from the increased 
command over Nature to country places where Nature is 
still in primitive command over Man that he can recover 
from the effects of the smoke, the stench, the foul air, the 
overcrowding, the racket, the ugHness, the dirt which the 



212 Caesar and Cleopatra 

cheap cotton costs us. If manufacturing activity means 
Progress, the town must be more advanced than the coun- 
try; and the field laborers and village artizans of to-day must 
be much less changed from the servants of Job than the 
proletariat of modern London from the proletariat of Cassar's 
Rome. Yet the cockney proletarian is so inferior to the village 
laborer that it is only by steady recruiting from the country 
that London is kept alive. This does not seem as if the 
change since Job's time were Progress in the popular sense: 
quite the reverse. The common stock of discoveries in 
physics has accumulated a little: that is all. 

One more illustration. Is the Englishman prepared to 
admit that the American is his superior as a human being? 
I ask this question because the scarcity of labor in America 
relatively to the demand for it has led to a development of 
machinery there, and a consequent "increase of command 
over Nature" which makes many of our English methods 
appear almost medieval to the up-to-date Chicagoan. This 
means that the American has an advantage over the English- 
man of exactly the same nature that the Englishman has 
over the contemporaries of Cicero. Is the Englishman pre- 
pared to draw the same conclusion in both cases? I think 
not. The American, of course, will draw it cheerfully; but 
I must then ask him whether, since a modern negro has a 
greater ** command over Nature" than Washington had, 
we are also to accept the conclusion, involved in his former 
one, that humanity has progressed from Washington to the 
Jin de Steele negro. 

Finally, I would point out that if life is crowned by its 
success and devotion in industrial organization and ingenuity, 
we had better worship the ant and the bee (as moralists 
urge us to do in our childhood), and humble ourselves before 
the arrogance of the birds of Aristophanes. 

My reason then for ignoring the popular conception of 
Progress in Caesar and Cleopatra is that there is no reason 



Notes 213 

to suppose that any Progress has taken place since their 
time. But even if I shared the popular delusion, I do not 
see that I could have made any essential difference in the 
play. I can only imitate humanity as I know it. Nobody 
knows whether Shakespear thought that ancient Athenian 
joiners, weavers, or bellows menders were any different 
from Elizabethan ones; but it is quite certain that he could 
not have made them so, unless, indeed, he had played the 
literary man and made Quince say, not **Is all our company 
here?" but ''Bottom: was not that Socrates that passed us 
at the Piraeus with Glaucon and Polemarchus on his way to 
the house of Kephalus." And so on. 

Cleopatra 

Cleopatra was only sixteen when Caesar went to Egypt; 
but in Egypt sixteen is a riper age than it is in England. 
The childishness I have ascribed to her, as far as it is child- 
ishness of character and not lack of experience, is not a 
matter of years. It may be observed in our own climate at 
the present day in many women of fifty. It is a mistake to 
suppose that the difference between wisdom and folly has 
anything to do with the difference between physical age and 
physical youth. Some women are younger at seventy than 
most women at seventeen. 

It must be borne in mind, too, that Cleopatra was a 
queen, and was therefore not the typical Greek-cultured, 
educated Egyptian lady of her time. To represent her by 
any such type would be as absurd as to represent George IV 
by a type founded on the attainments of Sir Isaac Newton. 
It is true that an ordinarily well educated Alexandrian girl 
of her time would no more have believed bogey stories 
about the Romans than the daughter of a modern Oxford 
professor would believe them about the Germans (though. 



214 C^sar and Cleopatra 

by the way, it is possible to talk great nonsense at Oxford 
about foreigners when we are at war with them). But I do 
not feel bound to believe that Cleopatra was well educated. 
Her father, the illustrious Flute Blower, was not at all a 
parent of the Oxford professor type. And Cleopatra was a 
chip of the old block. 

Britannus 

I find among those who have read this play in manu- 
script a strong conviction that an ancient Briton could not 
possibly have been like a modern one. I see no reason to 
adopt this curious view. It is true that the Roman and 
Norman conquests must have for a time disturbed the normal 
British type produced by the climate. But Britannus, born 
before these events, represents the unadulterated Briton who 
fought Csesar and impressed Roman observers much as we 
should expect the ancestors of Mr Podsnap to impress the 
cultivated Italians of their time. 

I am told that it is not scientific to treat national char- 
acter as a product of climate. This only shews the wide 
difference between common knowledge and the intellectual 
game called science. We have men of exactly the same 
stock, and speaking the same language, growing in Great 
Britain, in Ireland, and in America. The result is three of 
the most distinctly marked nationahties under the sun. 
Racial characteristics are quite another matter. The differ- 
ence between a Jew and a Gentile has nothing to do with 
the difference between an Englishman and a German. The 
characteristics of Britannus are local characteristics, not race 
characteristics. In an ancient Briton they would, I take it, 
be exaggerated, since modern Britain, disforested, drained, 
urbanified and consequently cosmopolized, is presumably 
less characteristically British than Caesar's Britain. 

And again I ask does anyone who, in the light of a 



Notes 215 

competent knowledge of his own age, has studied history 
from contemporary documents, believe that 67 generations 
of promiscuous marriage have made any appreciable differ- 
ence in the human fauna of these isles? Certainly I do not. 

Julius C^sar 

As to Caesar himself, I have purposely avoided the usual 
anachronism of going to Caesar's books, and concluding that 
the style is the man. That is only true of authors who have 
the specific literary genius, and have practised long enough 
to attain complete self-expression in letters. It is not true 
even on these conditions in an age when literature is con- 
ceived as a game of style, and not as a vehicle of self- 
expression by the author. Now Caesar was an amateur 
stylist writing books of travel and campaign histories in a 
style so impersonal that the authenticity of the later volumes 
is disputed. They reveal some of his qualities just as the 
Voyage of a Naturalist Round the World reveals some of 
Darwin's, without expressing his private personality. An 
Englishman reading them would say that Cssar was a man 
of great common sense and good taste, meaning thereby a 
man without originality or moral courage. 

In exhibiting Cssar as a much more various person than 
the historian of the Gallic wars, I hope I have not succumbed 
unconsciously to the dramatic illusion to which all great 
men owe part of their reputation and some the whole of it. 
I admit that reputations gained in war are specially question- 
able. Able civilians taking up the profession of arms, like 
Caesar and Cromwell, in middle age, have snatched all its 
laurels from opponent commanders bred to it, apparently 
because capable persons engaged in military pursuits are so 
scarce that the existence of two of them at the same time in 
the same hemisphere is extremely rare. The capacity of any 
conqueror is therefore more likely than not to be an illusion 



2i6 Caesar and Cleopatra 

produced by the incapacity of his adversary. At all events, 
Cassar might have won his battles without being wiser than 
Charles XII or Nelson or Joan of Arc, who were, like most 
modern ** self-made'* millionaires, half-witted geniuses, 
enjoying the worship accorded by all races to certain forms 
of insanity. But Caesar's victories were only advertisements 
for an eminence that would never have become popular 
without them. Caesar is greater off the battle field than 
on it. Nelson off his quarterdeck was so quaintly out 
of the question that when his head was injured at the battle 
of the Nile, and his conduct became for some years openly 
scandalous, the difference was not important enough to be 
noticed. It may, however, be said that peace hath her 
illusory reputations no less than war. And it is certainly true 
that in civil life mere capacity for work — the power of killing 
a dozen secretaries under you, so to speak, as a life-or-death 
courier kills horses — enables men with common ideas and 
superstitions to distance all competitors in the strife of political 
ambition. It was this power of work that astonished Cicero 
as the most prodigious of Caesar's gifts, as it astonished later 
observers in Napoleon before it wore him out. How if 
Caesar were nothing but a Nelson and a Gladstone combined ! 
a prodigy of vitality without any special quality of mind ! 
nay, with ideas that were worn out before he was born, as 
Nelson's and Gladstone's were! I have considered that 
possibility too, and rejected it. I cannot cite all the stories 
about Caesar which seem to me to shew that he was genu- 
inely original; but let me at least point out that I have been 
careful to attribute nothing but originality to him. Origi- 
nality gives a man an air of frankness, generosity, and mag- 
nanimity by enabling him to estimate the value of truth, 
money, or success in any particular instance quite inde- 
pendently of convention and moral generalization. He 
therefore will not, in the ordinary Treasury bench fashion, 
tell a lie which everybody knows to be a lie (and conse- 
quently expects him as a matter of good taste to tell). His 



Notes 217 

lies are not foand out: they pass for candors. He under- 
stands the paradox of money, and gives it away when he 
can get most for it: in other words, when its value is least, 
which is just when a common man tries hardest to get it. 
He knows that the real moment of success is not the moment 
apparent to the crowd. Hence, in order to produce an 
impression of complete disinterestedness and magnanimity, 
he has only to act with entire selfishness; and this is perhaps 
the only sense in which a man can be said to be naturally 
great. It is in this sense that I have represented Caesar as 
great. Having virtue, he has no need of goodness. He is 
neither forgiving, frank, nor generous, because a man who 
is too great to resent has nothing to forgive; a man who 
says things that other people are afraid to say need be no 
more frank than Bismarck was; and there is no generosity 
in giving things you do not want to people of whom you 
intend to make use. This distinction between virtue and 
goodness is not understood in England: hence the poverty 
of our drama in heroes. Our stage attempts at them are 
mere goody-goodies. Goodness, in its popular British sense 
of self-denial, implies that man is vicious by nature, and 
that supreme goodness is supreme martyrdom. Not sharing 
that pious opinion, I have not given countenance to it in any 
of my plays. In this I follow the precedent of the ancient 
myths, which represent the hero as vanquishing his enemies, 
not in fair fight, but with enchanted sword, superequine 
horse and magical invulnerability, the possession of which, 
from the vulgar moralistic point of view, robs his exploits 
of any merit whatever. 

As to Caesar's sense of humor, there is no more reason 
to assume that he lacked it than to assume that he was deaf 
or blind. It is said that on the occasion of his assassination 
by a conspiracy of moralists (it is always your moralist who 
makes assassination a duty, on the scaffold or off it), he 
defended himself until the good Brutus struck him, when he 
exclaimed **What! you too, Brutus!" and disdained further 



21 8 Cassar and Cleopatra 

fight. If this be true, he must have been an incorrigible 
comedian. But even if we waive this story, or accept the 
traditional sentimental interpretation of it, there is still 
abundant evidence of his lightheartedness and adventurous- 
ness. Indeed it is clear from his whole history that what has 
been called his ambition was an instinct for exploration. 
He had much more of Columbus and Franklin in him than 
of Henry V. 

However, nobody need deny Caesar a share, at least, of 
the qualities I have attributed to him. All men, much more 
Julius Caesars, possess all qualities in some degree. The 
really interesting question is whether I am right in assuming 
that the way to produce an impression of greatness is by 
exhibiting a man, not as mortifying his nature by doing his 
duty, in the manner which our system of putting little men 
into great positions (not having enough great men in our 
influential families to go round) forces us to inculcate, but 
as simply doing what he naturally wants to do. For this 
raises the question whether our world has not been wrong 
in its moral theory for the last 2,500 years or so. It must 
be a constant puzzle to many of us that the Christian era, so 
excellent in its intentions, should have' been practically such 
a very discreditable episode in the history of the race. I 
doubt if this is altogether due to the vulgar and sanguinary 
sensationalism of our religious legends, with their substitu- 
tion of gross physical torments and public executions for the 
passion of humanity. Islam, substituting voluptuousness for 
torment (a merely superficial difference, it is true) has done 
no better. It may have been the failure of Christianity to 
emancipate itself from expiatory theories of moral responsi- 
bility, guilt, innocence, reward, punishment, and the rest 
of it, that baffled its intention of changing the world. But 
these are bound up in all philosophies of creation as opposed 
to cosmism. They may therefore be regarded as the price 
we pay for popular religion. 



CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S 
CONVERSION 

IX 



HiNDHEAD, 1899 



CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND^S 
CONVERSION 

ACT I 

On the heights overlooking the harbor of Mogador, a 
seaport on the west coast of Morocco, the missionary, in the 
coolness of the late afternoon, is following the precept of Vol- 
taire by cultivating his garden. He is an elderly Scotchman, 
spiritually a little weatherbeaten, as having to navigate his 
creed in strange waters crowded with other craft, but still a 
convinced son of the Free Church and the North African 
Mission, with a faithful brozvn eye, ana a peaceful soul. 
Physically a wiry small-knit man, well tanned, clean shaven, 
with delicate resolute features and a twitikle of mild humor. 
He wears the sun helmet and pagri, the neutral- tinted 
spectacles, and the white canvas Spanish sand shoes of the 
modern Scotch missionary ; but instead of a cheap tourist"* s 
suit from Glasgow, a grey flannel shirt with white collar, a 
green sailor knot tie zvith a cheap pin in it, he wears a suit 
of clean white linen, acceptable in color, if not in cut, to the 
Moorish mind. 

The view from the garden includes much Atlantic Ocean 
and a long stretch of sandy coast to the south, swept by the 
north east trade wind, and scantily nourishing a few stunted 
pepper trees, mangy palms, and tamarisks. The prospect ends, 
as far as the land is concerned, in little hills that come nearly 
to the sea: ruaiments, these, of the Atlas Mountains, The 
missionary, having had daily opportunities of looking at this 
seascape for thirty years or so, pays no heed to it, being 
absorbed in trimming a huge red geranium bush, to English 

221 



112 Three Plays for Puritans' Act I 

eyes U7inaturally big^ whichy with a dusty smilax or two, is 
the sole product of his pet flower-bed. He is sitti?ig to his work 
071 a Moorish stool. In the middle of the garden there is a 
pleasant seat in the shade of a tamarisk tree. The house is in 
the south west corner of the garden, and the geranium bush 
in the north east corner. 

At the garden-door of the house there appears presently a 
man who is clearly no barbarian, being in fact a less agreeable 
product peculiar to modern commercial civilization. His frame 
and fie sh are those of an ill-nourished lad of seventeen ; but 
his age is inscrutable: only the absence of any sign of grey in 
his mud colored hair suggests that he is at all events probably 
under forty, without prejudice to the possibility of his being 
under twenty. A Londoner would recognize him at once as an 
extreme but hardy specimen of the abortion produced by nature 
in a city slum. His utterance, affectedly pumped and hearty, 
and naturally vulgar and nasal, is ready and fluent: nature, 
a Board School education, and some kerbstone practice having 
made him a bit of an orator. His dialect, apart from its base 
nasal delivery, is not unlike that of smart London society in 
its tendency to replace diphthongs by vowels {sometimes rather 
prettily^ and to shuffle all the traditional vowel pronunciations. 
He pronounces ow as ah, and i as aw, using the ordinary ow 
for 0, i for a, a for u, and e for a, with this reservation, 
that when any vowel is followed by an r, he signifies its 
presence, not by pronouncing the r, which he never does under 
these circumstances, but by prolonging and modifying the 
vowel, sometimes even to the extreme degree of pronouncing it 
properly. As to his yol for I (^a compendious delivery of the 
provincial eh-al), and other metropolitan refinements, amazing 
to all but cockneys, they cannot be indicated, save in the above 
imperfect manner, without the aid of a phonetic alphabet. 
He is dressed in somehody else* s very second best as a coast- 
guardsman, and gives himself the airs of a stage tar with 
sufficient success to pass as a possible fish porter of bad character 
in casual employment during busy times at Billingsgate. His 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 223 

manner shews an earnest disposition to ingratiate himself with 
the missionary, probably for some dishonest purpose. 

THE MAN. Awtenoon, Mr Renkin. \_The missionary sits 
up quickly, and turns, resigning himself dutifully to the ifiter- 
ruption^. Yr honor's eolth. 

RANKIN \reservedly~\ Good afternoon, Mr Drinkwotter. 

DRiNKWATER. YouFC Hot bcst plcascd to be hinterrapted 
in yr bit o gawdnin baw the lawk o me, gavner. 

RANKIN. A missionary knows nothing of leks of that 
soart, or of disleks either, Mr Drinkwotter. What can I do 
for ye? 

DRINKWATER \heartily'\ Nathink, gavner. Awve brort 
noos fer yer. 

RANKIN. Well, sit ye doon. 

DRINKWATER. Aw thenk yr honor. [He sits down on the 
seat under the tree and composes himself for conversation'^. 
Hever ear o Jadge Ellam? 

RANKIN. Sir Howrrd Hallam? 

DRINKWATER. Thets im — enginest jadge in Hingland! 
— awlus gives the ket wen its robbry with voylence, bless 
is awt. Aw sy nathink agin im: awm all fer lor mawseolf, 
aw em. 

RANKIN. Well? 

DRINKWATER. Hcver ear of is sist-in-lor: Lidy Sisly 
Winefleet? 

RANKIN. Do ye mean the celebrated leddy — the 
traveller? 

DRINKWATER. Yuss: should think aw doo. Walked acrost 
Harfricar with nathink but a little dawg, and wrowt abaht 
it in the Dily Mile \_the Daily Mail, a popular London 
newspaper^, she did. 

RANKIN. Is she Sir Howrrd Hallam' s sister-in-law? 

DRINKWATER. Deeccased wawfe's sister: yuss: thets wot 
she is. 

RANKIN. Well, what about them? 

DRINKWATER. Wot abaht them! Waw, theyre eah. 



224 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

Lannid aht of a steam yacht in Mogador awber not twenty 
minnits agow. Gorn to the British cornsl's. E'll send em 
cm to you: e ynt got naowheres to put em. Sor em awr 
{hire) a Harab an two Krooboys to kerry their laggige. 
Thort awd cam an teoll yer. 

RANKIN. Thank you. Its verra kind of you, Mr Drink- 
wotter. 

DRiNKWATER. Downt mention it, gavner. Lor bless yer, 
wawnt it you as converted me? Wot was aw wen aw cam 
eah but a pore lorst sinner? Downt aw ow y'a turn fer thet? 
Besawds, gavner, this Lidy Sisly Winefleet mawt wornt to 
tike a walk crost Morocker — a rawd inter the mahntns or 
sech lawk. Weoll, as you knaow, gavner, thet cawnt be 
done eah withaht a hescort. 

RANKIN. It's impoassible: th' would oall b' murrdered. 
Morocco is not lek the rest of Africa. 

DRINKWATER. No, gavncr: these eah Moors ez their 
religion; an it mikes em dinegerous. Hever convert a Moor, 
gavner? 

RANKIN \with a rueful smile\ No. 

DRINKWATER \solemnly\ Nor hever will, gavner. 

RANKIN. I have been at work here for twenty -five years, 
Mr Drinkwotter; and you are my first and only convert. 

DRINKWATER. Downt sccm naow good, do it, gavner? 

RANKIN. I dont say that. I hope I have done some good. 
They come to me for medicine when they are ill; and they 
call me the Christian who is not a thief. That is something. 

DRINKWATER. Their mawnds kennot rawse to Christi- 
ennity lawk hahrs ken, gavner: thets ah it is. Weoll, ez 
haw was syin, if a hescort is wornted, there's maw friend 
and commawnder Kepn Brarsbahnd of the schooner Thenks- 
givin, an is crew, incloodin mawseolf, will see the lidy an 
Jadge Ellam through henny little excursion in reason. Yr 
honor mawt mention it. 

RANKIN. I will certainly not propose anything so dan- 
gerous as an excursion. 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 225 

DRiNKWATER [virtuously^^ Naow, gavner, nor would I 
awst you to. ^Shaking his head\ Naow, naow: it is dine- 
gerous. But hall the more call for a hescort if they should 
ev it hin their mawnds to gow. 

RANKIN. I hope they wont. 

DRINKWATER. An SOW aw do too, gavner. 

RANKIN [j)ondering\ Tis strange that they should come 
to Mogador, of all places; and to my house! I once met Sir 
Howrrd Hallam, years ago. 

DRINKWATER [amazed^ Naow! didger? Think o thet, 
gavner! Waw, sow aw did too. But it were a misunner- 
stendin, thet wors. Lef the court withaht a stine on maw 
kerrickter, aw did. 

Rankin \zuith some indignation)^ I hope you dont think I 
met Sir Howrrd in that way. 

DRINKWATER. Mawt yeppn to the honestest, best meanin 
pusson, aw do assure yer, gavner. 

RANKIN. I would have you to know that I met him pri- 
vately, Mr Drinkwotter. His brother was a dear friend of 
mine. Years ago. He went out to the West Indies. 

DRINKWATER. The Wust Hindies ! Jist acrost there, 
tather sawd thet howcean [^pointing seazvara\\ Dear me! 
We cams hin with vennity, an we deepawts in dawkness. 
Downt we, gavner.'' 

RANKIN [pricking up his ears'] Eh? Have you been read- 
ing that little book I gave you. J* 

DRINKWATER. Aw hcv, et odd tawms. Very camfitn, 

gavner. [He rises, apprehensive lest further catechism should 

find him unprepared^. Awll sy good awtenoon, gavner: 

youre busy hexpectin o Sr Ahrd an Lidy Sisly, ynt yer.? 

[About to go], 

RANKIN [stopping him] No, stop: we're oalways ready 
for travellers here. I have something else to say — a question 
to ask you. 

DRINKWATER [with misgiving, which he masks by exagger- 
ating his hearty sailor manner] An weollcome, yr honor. 



226 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

RANKIN. Who is this Captain Brassbound? 

DRiNKWATER \_guiltily] Kcpn Brarsbahnd! E's — weoll, 
e*s maw Kepn, gavner. 

RANKIN. Yes. Well.? 

DRINKWATER \feebly\ Kepn of the schooner Thenks- 
givin, gavner. 

RANKIN ^searchingly\ Have ye ever haird of a bad 
character in these seas called Black Paquito.?* 

DRINKWATER \_zuith a suddcTJ radiance of complete enlight- 
enment\ Aoh, nar aw tikes yer wiv me, yr honor. Nah 
sammun es bin a teolln you thet Kepn Brarsbahnd an Bleck 
Pakeetow is haw-dentically the sime pussn. Ynt thet sow.? 

RANKIN. That is so. \Drinhwater slaps his knee trium- 
phantly. The missionary proceeds deter mine dly'\ And the 
someone was a verra honest, straightforward man, as far as 
I could judge. 

DRINKWATER ^embracing the implication^ Course e wors, 
gavner: Ev aw said a word agin him? Ev aw nah.? 

RANKIN. But is Captain Brassbound Black Faquito then? 

DRINKWATER. Waw, its the nime is blessed mather give 
im at er knee, bless is little awt! Therynt naow awm in it. 
She were a Wust Hinjin — howver there agin, yer see 
[pointing seaward^ — leastwaws, naow she wornt: she were 
a Brazilian, aw think; an Pakeetow' s Brazilian for a bloomin 
little perrit — awskin yr pawdn for the word. [Sentimen- 
tally'] Lawk as a Hinglish lidy mawt call er little boy Birdie. 

RANKIN \not quite convinced] But why Black Paquito? 

DRINKWATER [artlessly] Waw, the bird in its netral stite 
bein green, an e evin bleck air, y' knaow — 

RANKIN [cutting him short] I see. And now I will put ye 
another question. What is Captain Brassbound, or Paquito, 
or whatever he calls himself? 

HKn^vi^hTEK [officiously] Brarsbahnd, gavner. Awlus calls 
isseolf Brarsbahnd. 

RANKIN. Well, Brassbound, then. What is he? 

DRINKWATER [fervently] You awsks me wot e is, gavner? 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 227 

RANKIN \firmiy^^ I do. 

DRiNKWATER \tvith rising enthusiasrn^ An shll aw teoll 
yer wot e is, yr honor? 

RANKIN [;/<?/ at all impressed^ If ye will be so good, Mr 
Drinkwotter. 

DRINKWATER \zvith Overwhelming conviction'^ Then awll 
teoll you, gavner, wot he is. Ee's a Paflick Genlmn: thets 
wot e is. 

RANKIN \^gravely^ Mr Drinkwotter: pairfection is an 
attribute, not of West Coast captains, but of thr Maaker. 
And there are gentlemen and gentlemen in the world, 
espaecially in these latitudes. Which sort of gentleman is he? 

DRINKWATER. Hinglish genlmn, gavner. Hinglish 
speakin; Hinglish fawther; West Hinjin plawnter; Hinglish 
true blue breed. [^Reflectively^ Tech o brahn from the 
mather, preps, she bein Brazilian. 

RANKIN. Now on your faith as a Christian, Felix Drink- 
wotter, is Captain Brassbound a slaver or not? 

DRINKWATER \jurprised into his natural cockney pertness\ 
Naow e ynt. 

RANKIN. Are ye sure? 

DRINKWATER. Waw, a sHvcr is abaht the wanne thing 
in the wy of a genlmn o fortn thet e ynt. 

RANKIN. Ive haird that expression ** gentleman of 
fortune" before, Mr Drinkwotter. It means pirate. Do ye 
know that? 

DRINKWATER. Bless y'r awt, y' cawnt bea pawritnaradys. 
Waw, the aw seas is wuss pleest nor Piccadilly Suckus. If 
aw was to do orn thet there Hetlentic Howcean the things 
aw did as a bwoy in the Worterleoo Rowd, avvd ev maw air 
cat afore aw could turn maw ed. Pawrit be blaowed! — 
.awskink yr pawdn, gavner. Nah, jest to shaow you ah little 
thet there striteforard man y' mide mention on knaowed 
wot e was atorkin abaht: oo would you spowse was the 
marster to wich Kepn Brarsbahnd served apprentice, as yr 
mawt sy? 



22 8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

RANKIN. I dont know. 

DRiNKWATER. Gawdn, gavner, Gawdn. Gawdn o Kaw- 
toom — stetcher stends in Trifawlgr Square to this dy. 
Trined Bleck Pakeetow in smawshin hap the slive riders, 
e did. Promist Gawdn e wouldnt never smaggle slives nor 
gin, an [zvitb suppressed aggravatiofj^ wownt, gavner, not 
if we gows dahn on ahr bloomin bended knees to im to 
do it. 

RANKIN [drily\ And do ye go down on your bended 
knees to him to do it? 

DRINKWATER ^somewhat abashed~\ Some of huz is hancon- 
verted men, gavner; an they sy: You smaggles wanne thing, 
Kepn; waw not hanather? 

RANKIN. Weve come to it at last. I thought so. Captain 
Brassbound is a smuggler. 

DRINKWATER. Weoll, waw not? Waw not, gavner? Ahrs 
is a Free Tride nition. It gows agin us as Hinglishmen to 
see these bloomin furriners settin ap their Castoms Ahses 
and spheres o hinfluence and sich lawk hall owver Arfricar. 
Daownt Harfricar belong as much to huz as to them? thets 
wot we sy. Ennywys, there ynt naow awm in ahr business. 
All we daz is hescort, tourist hor commercial. Cook's 
hexcursions to the Hatlas Mahntns: thets hall it is. Waw, 
its spreadin civlawzytion, it is. Ynt it nah? 

RANKIN. You think Captain Brassbound's crew suffi- 
ciently equipped for that, do you? 

DRINKWATER. Hec-quippcd ! Haw should think sow. 
Lawtnin rawfles, twelve shots in the meggezine! Oo's to 
storp us? 

RANKIN. The most dangerous chieftain in these parts, 
the Sheikh Sidi el Assif, has a new American machine 
pistol which fires ten bullets without loadin; and his rifle 
has sixteen shots in the magazine. 

DRINKWATER \indignantly\ Yuss; an the people that sells 
sich things into the ends o' them eathen bleck niggers calls 
theirseolves Christians! Its a crool shime, sow it is. 



Act T Captain Brassbound's Conversion 229 

RANKIN. If a man has the heart to pull the trigger, it 
matters little what color his hand is, Mr Drinkwotter. Have 
ye anything else to say to me this afternoon? 

DRiNKWATER \_rning] Nathink, gavner, cept to wishyer 
the bust o yolth, and a many cornverts. Awtenoon, gavner. 

RANKIN. Good afternoon to ye, Mr Drinkwotter. 

As Drinkwater turns to go, a Moorish porter comes from 
the house with two Krooboys. 

THE PORTER \at the door, addressing Ranki?i\ Bikouros 
\_Mor ocean for Epicurus y a general Moorish name for the mis- 
sionaries, who are supposed by the Moors to have chosen their 
calling through a love of luxurious idleness^ : I have brought 
to your house a Christian dog and his woman. 

DRINKWATER. Thcres eathen menners fer yer! Calls Sr 
Ahrd Ellam an Lidy Winefleet a Christian dorg and is 
woman! If ee ed you in the dorck et the Centl Crimnal, 
youd fawnd aht oo was the dorg and oo was is marster, 
pretty quick, you would. 

RANKIN. Have you broat their boxes.? 

THE PORTER. By Allah, two camel loads! 

RANKIN. Have you been paid? 

THE PORTER. Only one miserable dollar, Bikouros. I 
have brought them to your house. They will pay you. 
Give me something for bringing gold to your door. 

DRINKWATER. Yah! You oughtcr bin bawn a Christian, 
you ought. You knaow too mach. 

RANKIN. You have broat onnly trouble and expense to my 
door, Hassan; and you know it. Have I ever charged your 
wife and children for my medicines? 

HASSAN \_philosophically'j It is always permitted by the 
Prophet to ask, Bikouros. [^He goes cheerfully into the house 
with the Krooboys~\. 

DRINKWATER. Jist thort eed trah it orn, e did. Hooman 
nitre is the sime everywheres. Them eathens is jast lawk you 
an' me, gavner. 

J lady and gentleman, both English, come into the garden. 



230 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

The gentleman y more than elderly , is facing old age on compul- 
sion, not resignedly. He is clean shaven, and has a brainy 
rectangular forehead, a resolute nose with strongly governed 
nostrils, and a tightly fastened down mouth which has evidently 
shut in much temper and anger in its time. He has a habit 
of deliberately assum.ed authority and dignity, but is trying to 
take life more genially and easily in his character of touristy 
which is further borne out by his white hat and summery 
racecourse attire. 

The lady is between thirty and forty, tall, very good- 
looking, sympathetic, intelligent, tender and humorous, dressed 
with cunning simplicity not as a businesslike, tailor made, 
gaitered tourist, but as if she lived at the next cottage and 
had dropped in for tea in blouse and flowered straw hat. A 
zvoman of great vitality and humanity, who begins a casual 
acquaintance at the point usually attained by English people 
after thirty years acquaintance when they are capable of 
reaching it at all. She pounces genially on Drinkwater, who 
is smirking at her, hat in hand, with an air of hearty wel- 
come. The gentleman, on the other hand, comes down the 
side of the garden next the house, instinctively maintaining a 
distance between himself and the others. 

THE LADY \to Drinkwatcr'] How dye do? Are you the 
missionary? 

DRINKWATER \modestly^ Naow, lidy, aw will not deceive 
you, thow the mistike his but netral. Awm wanne of the 
missionary's good works, lidy — is first corn vert, a umble 
British seaman — countrymen o yours, lidy, and of is 
lawdship's. This eah is Mr Renkin, the bust worker in the 
wust cowst vawnyawd. [Introducing the judge"] Mr Renkin: 
is lawdship Sr Ahrd Ellam. \^He withdraws discreetly into 
the house] . 

SIR HOWARD [to Rankin] I am sorry to intrude on you, 
Mr Rankin; but in the absence of a hotel there seems to be 
no alternative. 

LADY CICELY [beaming on himl Besides, we would so 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 23 1 

much rather stay with you, if you will have us, Mr 
Rankin. 

SIR HOWARD \introducing her^ My sister-in-law. Lady 
Cicely Waynflete, Mr Rankin. 

RANKIN. I am glad to be of service to your leddyship. 
You will be wishing to have some tea after your journey, 
I'm thinking. 

LADY CICELY. Thoughtful man that you are, Mr Rankin ! 
But weve had some already on board the yacht. And Ive 
arranged everything with your servants; so you must go on 
gardening just as if we were not here. 

SIR HOWARD. I am sorry to have to warn you, Mr 
Rankin, that Lady Cicely, from travelling in Africa, has 
acquired a habit of walking into people's houses and behav- 
ing as if she were in her own. 

LADY CICELY. But, mv dear Howard, I assure vou the 
natives like it. 

RANKIN \gallantlj\ So do L 

LADY CICELY \delighted^\ Oh, that is so nice of you, Mr 
Rankin. This is a delicious country! And the people seem 
so good! They have such nice faces! We had such a hand- 
some Moor to carry our luggage up! And two perfect pets 
of Krooboys! Did you notice their faces, Howard.? 

SIR HOWARD. I did; and I can confidently say, after a 
long experience of faces of the worst type looking at me 
from the dock, that I have never seen so entirely villainous 
a trio as that Moor and the two Krooboys, to whom you 
gave five dollars when they would have been perfectly 
satisfied with one. 

RANKIN \thr owing up his hands^ Five dollars! Tis easy to 
see you are not Scotch, my leddy. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, poor things, they must want it more 
than we do; and you know, Howard, that Mahometans 
never spend money in drink. 

RANKIN. Excuse me a moment, my leddy. I have a word 
in season to say to that same Moor. \^He goes into the housed. 



232 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

LADY CICELY \walking about the garden, looking at the 
view and at the flower s\ I think this is a perfectly heavenly 
place. 

Drinkwater returns from the house with a chair. 

DRiNKWATER \_placing the chair for Sir Howard J Awskink 
yr pawdn for the libbety, Sr Ahrd. 

SIR HOWARD \looking at him'\ I have seen you before 
somewhere. 

DRINKWATER. You ev, Sr Ahrd. But aw do assure yer 
it were hall a mistike. 

SIR HOWARD. As usual. [//> sits down\. Wrongfully 
convicted, of course. 

DRINKWATER \with slj delight~\ Naow, gavner. [Half 
whispering, with an ineffable grin^ Wrorngfully hacquittid! 

SIR HOWARD. Indeed! Thats the first case of the kind I 
have ever met. 

DRINKWATER. Lawd, Sr Ahrd, wot jagginses them jury- 
men was! You an me knaowed it too, didnt we? 

SIR HOWARD. 1 daresay we did. I am sorry to say I 
forget the exact nature of the difficulty you were in. Can 
you refresh my memory? 

DRINKWATER. Owny the aw sperrits youth, y' lawd- 
ship. Worterleoo Rowd kice. Wot they calls Ooliganism. 

SIR HOWARD. Oh! You wcrc a Hooligan, were your 

LADY CICELY \_puzzled^ A Hooligan ! 

DRINKWATER [deprecdtingly] Nime giv huz pore thortless 
leds baw a gent on the Dily Chrornicle, lidy. [Rankin 
returns. Drinkwater immediately withdraws, stopping the 
missionary for a moment near the threshold to say, touching 
his fore lock~\ Awll eng abaht within ile, gavner, hin kice aw 
should be wornted. [^He goes into the house with soft steps^. 

Lady Cicely sits down on the bench under the tamarisk. 
Rankin takes his stool from the flowerbed and sits down on 
her left. Sir Howard being on her right. 

LADY CICELY. What a pleasant face your sailor friend 
has, Mr Rankin! He has been so frank and truthful v/ith 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion i^^ 

us. You know I dont think anybody can pay me a greater 
compliment than to be quite sincere with me at first sight. 
Its the perfection of natural good manners. 

SIR HOWARD. You must not suppose, Mr Rankin, that 
my sister-in-law talks nonsense on purpose. She will 
continue to believe in your friend until he steals her watch; 
and even then she will find excuses for him. 

RANKIN [^r/Zy changing the subject] And how have ye 
been, Sir Howrrd, since our last meeting that morning 
nigh forty year ago down at the docks in London? 

SIR HOWARD \_greatly surprised, pulling himself together^ 
Our last meeting! Mr Rankin: have I been unfortunate 
enough to forget an old acquaintance? 

RANKIN. Well, perhaps hardly an acquaintance. Sir 
Howrrd. But I was a close friend of your brother Miles; 
and when he sailed for Brazil I was one of the little party 
that saw him off. You were one of the party also, if I'm 
not mistaken. I took particular notice of you because you 
were Miles's brother and I had never seen ye before. But 
ye had no call to take notice of me. 

SIR HOWARD ^rejiecting'\ Yes: there was a young friend 
of my brother's who might well be you. But the name, as 
I recollect it, was Leslie. 

RANKIN. That was me, sir. My name is Leslie Rankin; 
and your brother and I were always Miles and Leslie to one 
another. 

SIR HOWARD Ypluming himself a little] Ah! that explains 
it. I can trust my memory still, Mr Rankin; though some 
people do complain that I am growing old. 

RANKIN. And where may Miles be now. Sir Howard? 

SIR HOWARD \abruptlf] Dont you know that he is dead? 

RANKIN \much shocked] Never haird of it. Dear, dear: I 
shall never see him again; and I can scarcely bring his face 
to mind after all these years. \With moistening eyes, which 
at once touch Lady Cicely* s sympathy"] I'm right sorry — 
right sorry. 



234 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

SIR HOWARD [decorously subduing his voice^ Yes: he did 
not live long: indeed, he never came back to England. It 
must be nearly thirty years ago now that he died in the 
West Indies on his property there. 

RANKIN [surprised^ His proaperty! Miles with a proa- 
perty ! 

SIR HOWARD. Yes: he became a planter, and did well 
out there, Mr Rankin. The history of that property is a 
very curious and interesting one — at least it is so to a 
lawyer like myself. 

RANKIN. I should be glad to hear it for Miles' sake, 
though I am no lawyer. Sir Howrrd. 

LADY CICELY. I ncver knew you had a brother, Howard. 

SIR HOWARD [not pkased by this remark~\ Perhaps 
because you never asked me. [ Turning more blandly to 
Rankin] I will tell you the story, Mr Rankin. When Miles 
died, he left an estate in one of the West Indian islands. 
It was in charge of an agent who was a sharpish fellow, 
with all his wits about him. Now, sir, that man did a thing 
which probably could hardly be done with impunity even 
here in Morocco, Under the most barbarous of surviving 
civilizations. He quite simply took the estate for himself and 
kept it. 

RANKIN. But how about the law? 

SIR HOWARD. The law, sir, in that island, consisted 
practically of the Attorney General and the Solicitor 
General; and these gentlemen were both retained by the 
agent. Consequently there was no solicitor in the island to 
take up the case against him. 

RANKIN. Is such a thing possible today in the British 
Empire.? 

SIR HOWARD [calmly"] Oh, quite. Quite. 

LADY CICELY. But could not a firstrate solicitor have been 
sent out from London? 

SIR HOWARD. No doubt, by paying him enough to com- 
pensate him for giving up his London practice: that is. 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 235 

rather more than there was any reasonable likelihood of the 
estate proving worth. 

RANKIN. Then the estate was lost? 

SIR HOWARD. Not permanently. It is in my hands at 
present. 

RANKIN. Then how did ye get it back? 

SIR HOWARD \_with Crafty enjoyment of his own cunning^ 
By hoisting the rogue with his own petard. I had to leave 
matters as they were for many years; for I had my own 
position in the world to make. But at last I made it. In the 
course of a holiday trip to the West Indies, I found that 
this dishonest agent had left the island, and placed the estate 
in the hands of an agent of his own, whom he was foolish 
enough to pay very badly. I put the case before that agent; 
and he decided to treat the estate as my property. The 
robber now found himself in exactly the same position he 
had formerly forced me into. Nobody in the island would 
act against me, least of all the Attorney and Solicitor Gen- 
eral, who appreciated my influence at the Colonial Office. 
And so I got the estate back. "The mills of the gods 
grind slowly," Mr Rankin; *<but they grind exceeding 
small." 

LADY CICELY. Now I supposc if I'd done such a clever 
thing in England, youd have sent me to prison. 

SIR HOWARD. Probably, unless you had taken care to 
keep outside the law against conspiracy. Whenever you 
wish to do anything against the law. Cicely, always consult 
a good solicitor first. 

LADY CICELY. So I do. But supposc your agent takes it 
into his head to give the estate back to his wicked old 
employer! 

SIR HOWARD. I heartily wish he would. 

RANKIN [openeyed^ You wish he would ! ! 

SIR HOWARD. Yes. A few years ago the collapse of the 
West Indian sugar industry converted the income of the 
estate into an annual loss of about ^150 a year. If I cant 



i^S Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

sell it soon, I shall simply abandon it — unless you, Mr 
Rankin, would like to take it as a present. 

RANKIN [/augbmg~^ I thank your lordship: we have estates 
enough of that sort in Scotland. Youre setting with your 
back to the sun, Leddy Ceecily, and losing something worth 
looking at. See there. [^He rises and points seaward, wher£ 
the rapid twilight of the latitude has begun'\ . 

LADY CICELY \^getting up to look and uttering a cry of 
admiration^ Oh, how lovely! 

SIR HOWARD [also rising^ What are those hills over there 
to the southeast.? 

RANKIN. They are the outposts, so to speak, of the Atlas 
Mountains. 

LADY CICELY. The Atlas Mountains! Where Shelley's 
witch lived! We'll make an excursion to them tomorrow, 
Howard. 

RANKIN. Thats impoassible, my leddy. The natives are 
verra dangerous. 

LADY CICELY. Why.? Has any explorer been shooting 
them? 

RANKIN. No. But every man of them believes he will 
go to Heaven if he kills an unbeliever. 

LADY CICELY. Blcss you, dear Mr Rankin, the people 
in England beheve that they will go to heaven if they give 
all their property to the poor. But they dont do it. I'm 
not a bit afraid of that. 

RANKIN. But they are not accustomed to see women 
going about unveiled. 

LADY CICELY. I always get on best with people when 
they can see my face. 

SIR HOWARD. Cicely: you arc talking great nonsense; 
and you know it. These people have no laws to restrain 
them, which means, in plain English, that they are habitual 
thieves and murderers. 

RANKIN. Nay, nay: not exactly that. Sir Howrrd. 

LADY CICELY [indignantly] Of course not. You always 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 237 

think, Howard, that nothing prevents people killing each 
other but the fear of your hanging them for it. But what 
nonsense that is! And how wicked! If these people werent 
here for some good purpose, they wouldnt have been made, 
would they, Mr Rankin? 

RANKIN. That is a point, certainly, Leddy Ceecily. 

SIR HOWARD. Oh, if you are going to talk theology — 

LADY CICELY. Well, why not? theology is as respectable 
as law, I should think. Besides, I'm only talking common- 
sense. Why do people get killed by savages? Because 
instead of being polite to them, and saying How dye do? 
like me, people aim pistols at them. Ive been among 
savages — cannibals and all sorts. Everybody said theyd kill 
me. But when I met them, I said Howdyedo? and they 
were quite nice. The kings always wanted to marry me. 

SIR HOWARD. That does not seem to me to make you 
any safer here. Cicely. You shall certainly not stir a step 
beyond the protection of the consul, if I can help it, with- 
out a strong escort. 

LADY CICELY. I dont Want an escort. 

SIR HOWARD. I do. And I suppose you will expect me 
to accompany you. 

RANKIN. Tis not safe, Leddy Ceecily. Really and truly, 
tis not safe. The tribes are verra fierce; and there are cities 
here that no Christian has ever set foot in. If you go with- 
out being well protected, the first chief you meet will seize 
you and send you back again to prevent his followers mur- 
dering you. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, how nicc of him, Mr Rankin ! 

RANKIN. He would not do it for your sake, Leddy 
Ceecily, but for his own. The Sultan would get into 
trouble with England if you were killed; and the Sultan 
would kill the chief to pacify the English government. 

LADY CICELY. But I always go everywhere. I know the 
people here wont touch me. They have such nice faces and 
such pretty scenery. 



238 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

SIR HOWARD [/(? Rankin, sitting down again resignedly^ 
You can imagine how much use there is in talking to a 
woman who admires the faces of the ruffians who infest 
these ports, Mr Rankin. Can anything be done in the way 
of an escort? 

RANKIN. There is a certain Captain Brassbound here who 
trades along the coast, and occasionally escorts parties of 
merchants on journeys into the interior. I understand that 
he served under Gordon in the Soudan. 

SIR HOWARD. That sounds promising. But I should like 
to know a little more about him before I trust myself in his 
hands. 

RANKIN. I quite agree with you. Sir Howrrd. Til send 
Felix Drinkwotter for him. \^tie claps his hands. An Arab 
boy appears at the house door']. Muley: is sailor man here.? 
[^Muley nods'] . Tell sailor man bring captain. \_Muley nods 
and goes] . 

SIR HOWARD. Who is DHnkwater? 

RANKIN. His agent, or mate: I dont rightly know 
which. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, if he has a mate named Felix Drink- 
water, it must be quite a respectable crew. It is such a 
nice name. 

RANKIN. You saw him here just now. He is a convert 
of mine. 

LADY CICELY [delighted] That nice truthful sailor! 

SIR HOWARD [horrified] What! The Hooligan! 

RANKIN [puzzled] Hooligan? No, my lord: he is an 
Englishman. 

SIR HOWARD. My dear Mr Rankin, this man was tried 
before mc on a charge of street ruffianism. 

RANKIN. So he told me. He was badly broat up, I am 
afraid. But he is now a converted man. 

LADY CICELY. Of coursc he is. His telling you so frankly 
proves it. You know, really, Howard, all those poor people 
whom you try arc more sinned against than sinning. If you 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 239 

would only talk to them in a friendly way instead of passing 
cruel sentences on them, you would find them quite nice to 
you. ^Indignantly^ I wont have this poor man trampled on 
merely because his mother brought him up as a Hooligan. 
I am sure nobody could be nicer than he was when he 
spoke to us. 

SIR HOWARD. In short, we are to have an escort of 
Hooligans commanded by a filibuster. Very well, very 
well. You . will most likely admire all their faces; and I 
have no doubt at all that they will admire yours. 

Drinkwater comes from the house with an Italian dressed 
in a much worn suit of blue serge, a dilapidated Alpine hat, 
and boots laced with scraps of twine. He remains near the 
door, whilst Drinkwater comes forward between Sir Howard 
and Lady Cicely. 

DRINKWATER. Yr honor's servant. [7'<? the Italian^ 
Mawtzow: is lawdship Sr Ahrd Ellam \_Marzo touches his 
hatl . Er Lidyship Lidy Winefleet [Marzo touches his hat], 
Hawtellian shipmite, lidy. Hahr chef. 

LADY CICELY [nodding affably to Marzo] Howdyedo.? I 
love Italy. What part of it were you born in? 

DRINKWATER. Womt bawn in Hitly at all, lidy. Bawn 
in Ettn Gawdn [Hatton Garden^. Hawce barrer an street 
planner Hawtellian, lidy: thets wot e is. Kepn Brarsbahnd's 
respects to yr honors; an e awites yr commawnds. 

RANKIN. Shall we go indoors to see him? 

SIR HOWARD. I think we had better have a look at him 
by daylight. 

RANKIN. Then we must lose no time: the dark is soon 
down in this latitude. [ To Drinkwater] Will ye ask him to 
step out here to us, Mr Drinkwotter? 

DRINKWATER. Rawt you aw, gavner. \_He goes officiously 
into the house] . 

Lady Cicely and Rankin sit down as before to receive the 
Captain. The light is by this time waning rapidlyy the dark- 
ness creeping west into the orange crimson. 



240 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

LADY CICELY \zvhispering~\ Dont you feel rather creepy, 
Mr Rankin? I wonder what he'll be like. 

RANKIN. I misdoubt me he will not answer, your leddy- 
ship. 

There is a scuffling fioise in the house; and Drinkwater 
shoots out through the doorway across the garden with every 
appearance of having been violently kicked. Marzo immedi- 
ately hurries down the garden on Sir Howard^ s right out of 
the neighborhood of the doorway. 

DRINKWATER [trying to put a cheerful air on much morti- 
fication and bodily anguish^ Narsty step to thet ere door — 
tripped me hap, it did. \_Raising his voice and narrowly 
escaping a squeak of pai?f\ Kepn Brarsbahnd. [He gets as 
far from the house as possible, on Rankin* s left. Rankin 
rises to receive his guest~\. 

An olive complexioned man with dark southern eyes and 
hair comes from the house. Age about 36. Handsome features y 
but joyless; dark eyebrows drawn towards one another; mouth 
set grimly; nostrils large and strained: a face set to one tragic 
purpose. A man of few words, fewer gestures, and much 
significance. On the whole, interesting, and even attractive, 
but not friendly. He stands for a moment, saturnine in the 
ruddy light, to see who is present, looking in a singular and 
rather deadly way at Sir Howard; then with some surprise 
and uneasiness at Lady Cicely. Finally he comes down into 
the middle of the garden, and confronts Rankin, who has 
been staring at him in consternation from the moment of his 
entrance, and continues to do so in so marked a way that the 
glow in Brassbound^s eyes deepens as he begins to take offence. 

BRASSBOUND. Well, sir, have you stared your fill at me? 

RANKIN \recoveri?ig himself with a start^ I ask your par- 
don for my bad manners. Captain Brassbound. Ye are 
extraordinair lek an auld college friend of mine, whose face 
I said not ten minutes gone that I could no longer bring to 
mind. It was as if he had come from the grave to remind 
me of it. 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 241 

BRASSBOUND. Why have you sent for me? 

RANKIN. We have a matter of business with ye. Captain. 

BRASSBOUND. Who are "we".? 

RANKIN. This is Sir Hovvrrd Hallam, who will be well 
known to ye as one of Her Majesty's judges. 

BRASSBOUND \turning the singular look again on Sir 
Hozvard~\ The friend of the widow! the protector of the 
fatherless ! 

SIR HOWARD [startled^ I did not know I was so favorably 
spoken of in these parts. Captain Brassbound. We want an 
escort for a trip into the mountains. 

BRASSBOUND [ignoring this announcement'^ Who is the 
lady? 

RANKIN. Lady Ceecily Waynflete, his lordship's sister- 
in-law. 

LADY CICELY. Howdyedo, Captain Brassbound? \^He bows 
gravely] . 

SIR HOWARD \_a little impatient of these questions ^ which 
strike him as somewhat impertinent'] Let us come to business, 
if you please. We are thinking of making a short excursion 
to see the country about here. Can you provide us with an 
escort of respectable, trustworthy men? 

BRASSBOUND. No. 

DRiNKWATER [ //? Strong remonstrance] Nan, nah, nah! 
Nah look eah, Kepn, y' knaow — 

BRASSBOUND \between his teeth] Hold your tongue. 

DRINKWATER [abjectly] Yuss, Kepn. 

RANKIN. I understood it was your business to provide 
escorts, Captain Brassbound. 

BRASSBOUND. You wcrc rightly informed. That i s my 
business. 

LADY CICELY. Then why wont you do it for us? 

BRASSBOUND. You are not content with an escort. You 
want respectable, trustworthy men. You should have 
brought a division of London policemen with you. My 
men are neither respectable nor trustworthy. 



14-2 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

DRiNKWATER [ufiabk to Contain himself^ Nah, nah, look 
eah, Kepn. If you want to be moddist, be moddist on your 
aown accahnt, nort on mawn. 

BRASSBOUND. You see what my men are like. That 
rascal [indicating Marzo] would cut a throat for a dollar if 
he had courage enough. 

MARZO. I not understand. I no spik Englis. 

BRASSBOUND. This thing [pointing to Drinkzvater] is the 
greatest liar, thief, drunkard, and rapscallion on the west 
coast. 

DRINKWATER [affectifig an ironic indifference^ Gow orn, 
gow orn. Sr Ahrd ez erd witnesses to maw kerrickter afoah. 
E knaows ah mech to blieve of em. 

LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound: I have heard all that 
before about the blacks; and I found them very nice people 
when they were properly treated. 

DRINKWATER [chuckUng: the Italian is also grinning\ Nah, 
Kepn, nah! Owp yr prahd o y'seolf nah. 

BRASSBOUND. I quitc Understand the proper treatment for 
him, madam. If he opens his mouth again without my 
leave, I will break every bone in his skin. 

LADY CICELY \in her most sunnily matter-of-fact way] 
Does Captain Brassbound always treat you like this, Mr 
Drink water? 

Drinkzoater hesitates, and looks apprehensively at the 
Captain. 

BRASSBOUND. Answer, you dog, when the lady orders 
you. \To Lady Cicely] Do not address him as Mr Drink- 
water, madam: he is accustomed to be called Brandyfaced 
Jack. 

DRINKWATER [indignantly] Eah, aw sy! nah look eah, 
Kepn: maw nime is Drinkworter. You awsk em et Sin 
Jorn's in the Worterleoo Rowd. Orn maw grenfawther's 
tombstown, it is. 

BRASSBOUND. It will be on your own tombstone, pres- 
ently, if you cannot hold your tongue-. ^Turning to the 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 243 

others] Let us understand one another, if you please. An 
escort here, or anywhere where there are no regular dis- 
ciplined forces, is what its captain makes it. If I undertake 
this business, / shall be your escort. I may require a dozen 
men, just as I may require a dozen horses. Some of the 
horses will be vicious; so will all the men. If either horse 
or man tries any of his viciousness on me, so much the worse 
for him; but it will make no difference to you. I will order 
my men to behave themselves before the lady; and they 
shall obey their orders. But the lady will please understand 
that I take my own way with them and suffer no inter- 
ference. 

LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound: I dont want an 
escort at all. It will simply get us all into danger; and 
I shall have the trouble of getting it out again. Thats 
what escorts always do. But since Sir Howard prefers an 
escort, I think you had better stay at home and let me take 
charge of it. I know your men will get on perfectly well 
if they re properly treated. 

DRiNKWATER [with enthusiasm\ Feed aht o yr and, lidy, 
we would. 

BRASSBOUND \with savdovAc asse7it\ Good. I agree. \^To 
Dri?tkwater\ You shall go without me. 

DRINKWATER ^tervifief] Eah! Wot are you a syin orn? 
We cawnt gow withaht yer. \To Lady Cicely\ Naow, lidy: 
it wouldnt be for yr hown good. Yer cawnt hexpect a lot 
o poor honeddikited men lawk huz to ran ahrseolvs into 
dineger withaht naow Kepn to teoll us wot to do. Naow, 
lidy: hoonawted we stend: deevawdid we fall. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, if you prefer your captain, have him 
by all means. Do you like to be treated as he treats you.'' 

DRINKWATER \_with a smik of vaniff]^ Weoll, lidy: y* 
cawnt deenaw that e's a PafHck Genlmn. Bit hawbitrairy, 
preps; but hin a genlmn you looks for sich. It tikes a 
hawbitrairy wanne to knock aht them eathen Shikes, aw 
teoll yer. 



244 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

BRASSBOUND. Thats enough. Go. 

DRiNKWATER. Wcoll, aw was hownly a teolln the lidy 
thet — [J threatening movement from Brassbound cuts him 
short. He fiies for his life into the house y followed by the 
Italian'\ . 

BRASSBOUND. Your ladyship sees. These men serve me 
by their own free choice. If they are dissatisfied, they go. 
If / am dissatisfied, they go. They take care that I am not 
dissatisfied. 

SIR HOWARD \who has listened with approval and growing 
confidence^ Captain Brassbound: you are the man I want. 
If your terms are at all reasonable, I will accept your ser- 
vices if we decide to make an excursion. You do not object. 
Cicely, I hope. 

LADY CICELY. Oh no. After all, those men must really 
like you. Captain Brassbound. I feel sure you have a kind 
heart. You have such nice eyes. 

SIR HOVv^ARD [scandalized'] My dear Cicely: you really 
must restrain your expressions of confidence in people's eyes 
and faces. [To Brassbound] Now, about terms. Captain? 

BRASSBOUND. Where do you propose to go? 

SIR HOWARD. I hardly know. Where can we go, Mr 
Rankin? 

RANKIN. Take my advice. Sir Howrrd. Dont go far. 

BRASSBOUND. I cau take you to Meskala, from which you 
can see the Atlas Mountains. From Meskala I can take you 
to an ancient castle in the hills, where you can put up as 
long as you please. The customary charge is half a dollar 
a man per day and his food. / charge double. 

SIR HOWARD. I suppose you answ^er for your men being 
sturdy fellows, who will stand to their guns if necessary. 

BRASSBOUND. I can answer for their being more afraid of 
me than of the Moors. 

LADY CICELY. That docsut matter in the least, Howard. 
The important thing. Captain Brassbound, is: first, that we 
should have as few men as possible, because men give such 



Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 245 

a lot of trouble travelling. And then, they must have good 
lungs and not be always catching cold. Above all, their 
clothes must be of good wearing material. Otherwise I shall 
be nursing and stitching and mending all the way; and it 
will be trouble enough, I assure you, to keep them washed 
and fed without that. 

BRASSBOUND [^haughtHy'] My men, madam, are not 
children in the nursery. 

LADY CICELY \_with Unanswerable convictio7i\ Captain 
Brassbound: all men are children in the nursery. I see that 
you dont notice things. That poor Italian had only one 
proper bootlace: the other was a bit of string. And I am 
sure from Mr Drinkwater's complexion that he ought to 
have some medicine. 

BRASSBOUND [outwardly determined not to be trifled with: 
inwardly puzzled and rather daunted'^ Madam: if you want 
an escort, I can provide you with an escort. If you want a 
Sunday School treat, I can not provide it. 

LADY CICELY \_with swect melancholj\ Ah, dont you wish 
you could. Captain? Oh, if I could only shew you my 
children from Waynflete Sunday School ! The darlings 
would love this place, with all the camels and black men. 
I'm sure you would enjoy having them here. Captain 
Brassbound; and it would be such an education for your 
men! \_Brassbound stares at her with drying lips~\. 

SIR HOWARD. Cicely: when you have quite done talking 
nonsense to Captain Brassbound, we can proceed to make 
some definite arrangement with him. 

LADY CICELY. But it's arranged already. We'll start at 
eight o'clock tomorrow morning, if you please, Captain. 
Never mind about the Italian: I have a big box of clothes 
with me for my brother in Rome; and there are some 
bootlaces in it. Now go home to bed and dont fuss yourself. 
All you have to do is to bring your men round; and I'll see 
to the rest. Men are always so nervous about moving. 
Goodnight. [She offers him her hand. Surprised ^ he pulls 



246 Three Plays for Puritans Act I 

off his cap for the first time. Some scruple prevents him from 
taking her hand at once. He hesitates ; then turns to Sir 
Howard and addresses him with warning earnestness']^. 

BRASSBOUND. Sir Howard Hallam: I advise you not to 
attempt this expedition. 

SIR HOWARD. Indeed! Why? 

BRASSBOUND. You are safe here. I warn you, in those 
hills there is a justice that is not the justice of your courts in 
England. If you have wronged a man, you may meet that 
man there. If you have wronged a woman, you may meet 
her son there. The justice of those hills is the justice of 
vengeance. 

SIR HOWARD \_faintly amused^ You are superstitious. 
Captain. Most sailors are, I notice. However, I have com- 
plete confidence in your escort. 

BRASSBOUND [almost threateningly^ Take care. The 
avenger may be one of the escort. 

SIR HOWARD. I have already met the only member of 
your escort who might have borne a grudge against me. 
Captain; and he was acquitted. 

BRASSBOUND. You are fated to come, then? 

SIR HOWARD [smiling\ It seems so. 

BRASSBOUND. On your head be it! [To Lady Cicely, 
accepting her hand at last~\ Goodnight. 

He goes. It is by this time starry night. 



ACT II 

Midday. A room in a Moorish castle. A divan seat runs 
round the dilapidated adobe walls , which are partly painted^ 
partly faced with white tiles patterned in green and yellow. 
The ceiling is made up of little squares^ painted in bright 
colors, with gilded edges, and ornamented with gilt knobs. 
On the cement floor are mattings, sheepskins, and leathern 
cushions with geometrical patterns on them. There is a tiny 
Moorish table in the middle; and at it a huge saddle, with 
saddle cloths of various colors, shewing that the room is used 
by foreigners accustomed to chairs. Anyone sitting at the table 
in this seat would have the chief entrance, a large horseshoe 
arch, on his left, and another saddle seat between him and 
the arch; whilst, if susceptible to draughts, he would probably 
catch cold from a little Moorish door in the wall behind him 
to his right. 

Two or three of Brassbound* s men, overcome by the 
midday heat, sprawl supine on the fioor, with their reefer 
coats under their heads, their knees uplifted, and their calves 
laid comfortably on the divan. Those who wear shirts have 
them open at the throat for greater coolness. Some have jerseys. 
All wear boots and belts, and have guns ready to their hands. 
One of them, lying with his head against the second saddle 
seat, wears what was once a fashionable white English yacht- 
ing suit. He is evidently a pleasantly worthless young English 
gentleman gone to the bad, but retaining sufficient self-respect 
to shave carefully and brush his hair, which is wearing thin, 
and does not seem to have been luxuriant even in its best days. 

The silence is broken only by the snores of the young 
gentleman, whose mouth has fallen open, until a few distant 
247 



248 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

shots half waken him. He shuts his mouth convulsively, and 
opens his eyes sleepily. A door is violently kicked outside; and 
the voice of Drinkwater is heard raising urgent alarm. 

DRiNKWATER. Wot ow! Wikc ap there, will yr. Wike 
ap. \He rushes in through the horseshoe arch, hot and 
excited, and runs round, kicking the sleepers'] Nah then. 
Git ap. Git ap, will yr. Kiddy Redbrook. [^He gives the 
young gentleman a rude shove^. 

REDBROOK [sitting up] Stow that, will you. Whats amiss? 

DRINKWATER [digusted] Wots amiss! Didnt eah naow 
fawrin, I spowse. 

REDBROOK. No. 

DRINKWATER [sneering] Naow. Thort it sifer nort, 
didnt yr.? 

REDBROOK [zvith crisp intelligence] What ! Youre running 
away, are you? [He springs up, crying] Look alive. Johnnies: 
there's danger. Brandyfaced Jack's on the run. [They 
spring up hastily, grasping their guns] . 

DRINKWATER. Dinegcr! Yuss: should think there wors 
dineger. It's howver, thow, as it mowstly his baw the 
tawm youre a wike. [They relapse into lassitude]. Waw 
wasnt you on the look-aht to give us a end? Bin hattecked 
baw the Benny Seeras [Beni Siras] , we ev, an ed to rawd 
for it pretty strite, too, aw teoU yr. Mawtzow is it: the 
bullet glawnst all rahnd is bloomin brisket. Brarsbahnd 
e dropt the Shike's oss at six unnern fifty yawds. [Bustling 
them about^ Nah then: git the plice ready for the British 
herristorcracy, Lawd Ellam and Lidy Wineflete. 

REDBROOK. Lady faint, eh? 

DRINKWATER. Fynt ! Not lawkly. Wornted to gow an 
talk to the Benny Seeras: blaow me if she didnt! Harskt 
huz wot we was frahtnd of. Tyin ap Mawtzow's wound, 
she is, like a bloomin orspittle nass. [Sir Howard, with a 
copious pagri on his white hat, enters through the horseshoe 
arch, followed by a couple of men supportifig the wounded 
Marzo, who, weeping and terrorstricken by the prospect of 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 249 

death and of subsequent torments for which he is conscious of 
having eminently qualified himself, has his coat off and a 
bandage round his chest. One of his supporters is a black- 
bearded, thickset, sloWy middle-aged man with an air of 
damaged respectability , named — as it afterwards appears — 
Johnson, Lady Cicely walks beside Mar zo. Redbrook, a little 
shamefaced, crosses the room to the opposite wall as far away 
as possible from the visitors. Drinkwater turns and receives 
them with jocular ceremony"] . Weolcome to Brarsbahnd 
Cawstl, Sr Ahrd an lidy. This eah is the corfee and com- 
mercial room. 

Sir Howard goes to the table and sits on the saddle, rather 
exhausted. Lady Cicely comes to Drinkwater. 

LADY CICELY. Where is Marzo's bed? 

DRINKWATER. Is bed, lidy? Weoll: e ynt petickler, lidy. 
E ez is chawce of henny flegstown agin thet wall. 

They deposit Marzo on the flags against the wall close to 
the little door, tie groans. Johnson phlegmatic ally leaves 
him and joins Redbrook. 

LADY CICELY. But you cant leave him there in that state. 

DRINKWATER. Ow: e'shallrawt. [Strolling up callously 
to Marzo] Youre hall rawt, ynt yer, Mawtzow? [Marzo 
whimpers]. Corse y' aw. 

LADY CICELY [^to Sir Howard] Did you ever see such a 
helpless lot of poor creatures? [She makes for the little 
door] . 

DRINKWATER. Eah! [He runs to the door and places him- 
self before it]. Where mawt yr lidyship be gowin? 

LADY CICELY. I'm going through every room in this castle 
to find a proper place to put that man. And now I'll tell 
you where youre going. Youre going to get some water 
for Marzo, who is very thirsty. And then, when Ive 
chosen a room for him., youre going to make a bed for him 
there. 

DRINKWATER [sarcastically] Ow! Henny ather little 
suvvice? Mike yrseolf at owm, y' knaow, lidy. 



250 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

LADY CICELY \_considerately\ Dont go if youd rather not, 
Mr Drink water. Perhaps youre too tired. \_Turning to the 
archzvay\ I'll ask Captain Brassbound: he wont mind. 

DRiNKWATER [^terrified, running after her and getting 
between her and the arch'\ Naow, naow! Naow, lidy: 
downt you gow disturbin the Kepn. Awll see to it. 

LADY CICELY \_gravelj\ I was sure you would, Mr Drink- 
water. You have such a kind face. \She turns back and goes 
out through the small door"] . 

DRINKWATER \Jooking after her^ Garn! 

SIR HOWARD [to Drinkwater^ Will you ask one of your 
friends to show me to my room whilst you are getting the 
water.? 

DRINKWATER \insolently] Yr room! Ow: this ynt good 
enaf fr yr, ynt it.'' [^Ferociously^ Oo a you orderin abaht, ih? 

SIR HOWARD [rising quietly^ and taking refuge hetween 
Redbrook and Johnson^ whom he addresses'^ Can you find me 
a more private room than this.? 

JOHNSON [shaking his head'\ Ive no orders. You must 
wait til the capn comes, sir. 

DRINKWATER [following Sir Howard] Yuss; an whawl 
youre witin, yll tike your horders from me: see? 

JOHNSON [with slow severity, to Drinkwater] Look here: 
do you see three genlmen talkin to one another here, civil 
and private, eh? 

DRINKWATER [chapfallen'\ No oiFence, Miste Jornsn — 

JOHNSON [ominously] Ay; but there is offence. Wheres 
your manners, you guttersnipe? [Turning to Sir Howard] 
Thats the curse this kind o life, sir: you got to associate 
with all sorts. My father, sir, was Capn Johnson o Hull — 
owned his own schooner, sir. We're mostly gentlemen here, 
sir, as youll find, except the poor ignorant foreigner and 
that there scum of the submerged tenth. [Contemptously 
talking at Drinkwater] He ain't nobody's son: he's only 
a offspring o coster folk or such. 

DRINKWATER [bursting into tears] Clawss feelin! thets 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 251 

wot it is: clavvss feelin! Wot are yer, arter all, bat a 
bloomin gang o wust cowst cazhls [casual ward paupers\ ? 
\^ohnson is scandalized ; and there is a general thrill of 
indignation']. Better ev naow fembly, an rawse aht of it, 
lawk me, than ev a specble one and disgrice it, lawk you. 

JOHNSON. Brandyfaced Jack: I name you for conduct 
and language unbecoming to a gentleman. Those who agree 
will signify the same in the usual manner. 

ALL [vehemently] Aye. 

DRiNKWATER \wildly~\ Naow. 

JOHNSON. Felix Drinkwater: are you goin out, or are you 
goin to wait til youre chucked out? You can cry in the 
passage. If you give any trouble, youll have something to 
cry for. 

They make a threatening movement towards Drinkwater. 

DRINKWATER \whimpering\ You lee me alown: awm 
gowin. There's n'maw true demmecrettick feelin eah than' 
there is in the owl bloomin M division of Noontn Corzwy 
coppers [Newington Causeway policemen]. 

As he slinks away in tears towards the arch, Brassbound 
enters. Drinkwater promptly shelters himself on the captai?i* s 
left handy the others retreating to the opposite side as Brass- 
bound advances to the middle of the room. Sir Howard retires 
behind them and seats himself on the divan y much fatigued. 

BRASSBOUND \to Drinkwater] What are you snivelling at? 

DRINKWATER. You awsk the wust cowst herristorcracy. 
They fawnds maw cornduck hanbecammin to a genlmn. 

Brassbound is about to ask "Johnson for an explanation, 
when Lady Cicely returns through the little door, and comes 
between Brassbound and Drinkwater. 

LADY CICELY \to Drinkwater] Have you fetched the 
water? 

DRINKWATER. Yuss: nah you begin orn me. \He weeps 
afresh] . 

LADY CICELY [^surprised] Oh! This wont do, Mr Drink- 
water. If you cry, I cant let you nurse your friend. 



252 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

DRiNKWATER [fra^itu"] Thctll brike maw awt, wownt it 
nah? [ff^ifb a lamentable sob, he throws himself down on the 
divan, raging like an angry child\ 

LADY CICELY \after contemplating him in astonishment for 
a moment"] Captain Brassbound: are there any charwomen 
in the Atlas Mountains? 

BRASSBOUND. There are people here who will work if you 
pay them, as there are elsewhere. 

LADY CICELY. This castlc is very romantic. Captain; but 
it hasnt had a spring cleaning since the Prophet lived in it. 
Theres only one room I can put that wounded man into. 
Its the only one that has a bed in it: the second room on 
the right out of that passage. 

BRASSBOUND [haughtily] That is my room, madam. 

LADY CICELY [relieved] Oh, thats all right. It would 
have been so awkward if I had had to ask one of your men 
to turn out. You wont mind, I know. [Jll the men stare 
at her. Even Drinkwater forgets his sorrows in his stupefac- 
tion] . 

BRASSBOUND. Pray, madam, have you made any arrange- 
ments for my accommodation? 

LADY CICELY [reassuringly] Yes: you can have my room 
instead, wherever it may be: I'm sure you chose me a nice 
one. I must be near my patient; and I dont mind roughing 
it. Now I must have Marzo moved very carefully. Where 
is that truly gentlemanly Mr Johnson? — oh, there you are, 
Mr Johnson. [She runs to Johnson, past Brassbound, who 
has to step back hastily out of her way with every expression 
frozen out of his face except 07ie of extreme and indignant 
dumbfoundedness\ . Will you ask your strong friend to help 
you with Marzo: strong people are always so gentle. 

JOHNSON. Let me introdooce Mr Redbrook. Your lady- 
ship may know his father, the very Rev. Dean Redbrook. 
[He goes to Marzo] . 

REDBROOK. Happy to oblige you. Lady Cicely. 

LADY CICELY [shaking hands] Howdyedo? Of course I 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 253 

knew your father — Dunham, wasnt it? Were you ever 
called — 

REDBROOK. The kid? Yes. 

LADY CICELY. But why 

REDBROOK [anticipating the rest of the question^ Cards 
and drink. Lady Sis. \He follows Johnson to the patient. 
Lady Cicely goes too'\. Now, Count Marzo. [Marzo groans 
as Johnson and Redbrook raise him\. 

LADY CICELY. Now they re not hurting you, Marzo. 
They couldnt be more gentle. 

MARZO. Drink. 

LADY CICELY. I'll get you some water myself. Your 
friend Mr Drinkwater was too overcome — take care of the 
corner — thats it — the second door on the right. \She goes 
out with Marzo and his bearers through the little door, ] 

BRASSBOUND \jtill staring\ Well, lam damned ! 

DRINKWATER [getting up\ Weoll, blimey! 

BRASSBOUND [tuming irritably on him\ What did you say? 

DRINKWATER. Weoll, wot did yer sy yrseolf, kepn? 
Fust tawm aw yever see y' afride of ennybody. \fthe 
others laugh^ . 

BRASSBOUND. Afraid! 

DRINKWATER [maliciously'] She's took y'bed from hander 
yr for a bloomin penny hawcemen. If y' ynt afride, lets 
eah yer speak ap to er wen she cams bavvck agin. 

BRASSBOUND [to Sir Howard] 1 wish you to understand. 
Sir Howard, that in this castle, it is / who give orders, and 
no one else. Will you be good enough to let Lady Cicely 
Waynflete know that. 

SIR HOWARD [sitting up on the divan and pulling himself 
together] You will have ample opportunity for speaking to 
Lady Cicely yourself when she returns. [Drinkwater chuck- 
les; and the rest grin~\. 

BRASSBOUND. My mannncrs are rough. Sir Howard. I 
have no wish to frighten the lady. 

SIR HOWARD. Captain Brassbound: if you can frighten 



2 54 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

Lady Cicely, you will confer a great obligation on her 
family. If she had any sense of danger, perhaps she would 
keep out of it. 

BRASSBOUND. Well, sir, if she were ten Lady Cicelys, 
she must consult me while she is here. 

DRiNKWATER. Thets rawt, kepn. Lets eah you steblish 
yr hawthority. \_Brassbound tur?is impatiently on him: he 
retreats remonstrating] Nah, nah, nah! 

SIR HOWARD. If you fccl at all nervous. Captain Brass- 
bound, I will mention the matter with pleasure. 

BRASSBOUND. Ncrvous, Sir! no. Nervousness is not in 
my line. You will find me perfectly capable of saying what 
I want to say — with considerable emphasis, if necessary. 
[Sir Howard assents with a polite but incredulous nod~\ . 

DRINKWATER. Eah, cah ! 

Lady Cicely returns with Johnson and Redbrook. She 
carries a jar. 

LADY CICELY \j topping between the door and the arch] 
Now for the water. Where is it.'' 

REDBROOK. There's a well in the courtyard. I'll come 
and work the bucket. 

LADY CICELY. So good of you, Mr Kidbrook. \She makes 
for the horseshoe arch, followed by Redbrook] . 

DRINKWATER. Nah, Kcpn Brarsbahnd: you got sathink 
to sy to the lidy, ynt yr.? 

LADY CICELY {stopping] I'll comc back to hear it pre- 
sently. Captain. And oh, while I remember it, [coming 
forward between Brassbound and Drinkwater\ do please tell 
me. Captain, if I interfere with your arrangements in any 
way. If I disturb you the least bit in the world, stop me 
at once. You have all the responsibility; and your comfort 
and your authority must be the first thing. Youll tell me, 
won't you.'' 

BRASSBOUND [awkwardly, quite beaten] Pray do as you 
please, madam. 

LADY CICELY. Thank you. Thats so like you. Captain. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 255 

Thank you. Now, Mr Redbrook! Show me the way to 
the well. \She follows Redbrook out through the arch'\ . 

DRiNKWATER. Yah! Yah! Shime! Beat baw a woman! 

JOHNSON [coming forward on Brass bound' s right~\ What's 
wrong now? 

DRINKWATER \with an air of disappointment and disillu- 
sion'^ Downt awsk me, Miste Jornsn. The kepn's naow 
clawss arter all. 

BRASSBOUND [a little shamefacedly^ What has she been 
fixing up in there, Johnson? 

JOHNSON. Well: Marzo's in your bed. Lady wants to 
make a kitchen of the Sheikh's audience chamber, and to 
put me and the Kid handy in his bedroom in case Marzo 
gets erysipelas and breaks out violent. From what I can 
make out, she means to make herself matron of this institu- 
tion. I spose its all right, isnt it? 

DRINKWATER. Yuss, an hordcr huz abaht as if we was 
keb tahts! An the kepn afride to talk bawck at er! 

Lady Cicely returns with Redbrook. She carries the jar 
full of water, 

LADY CICELY [putting down the jar, and coming between 
Br ass bound and Drinkwater as before^ And now. Captain, 
before I go to poor Marzo, what have you to say to me? 

BRASSBOUND. I! Nothing. 

DRINKWATER. Downt fank it, gavner. Be a men! 

LADY CICELY [looking at Drinkwater, puzzled'\ Mr 
Drinkwater said you had. 

BRASSBOUND [recovering himself^ It was only this. That 
fellow there [pointing to Drinkwater^ is subject to fits of 
insolence. If he is impertinent to your ladyship, or diso- 
bedient, you have my authority to order him as many kicks 
as you think good for him; and I will see that he gets them. 

DRINKWATER [lifting Up his voice in protest']^ Nah, nah — 

LADY CICELY. Oh, I couldnt think of such a thing. 
Captain Brassbound. I am sure it would hurt Mr Drink- 
water. 



2^6 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

DRINK WATER [/acbrymose/y'] Lidy's hinkyp'ble o sich 
bawbrous usage. 

LADY CICELY. But there's one thing I should like, if 
Mr Drinkwater wont mind my mentioning it. It's so 
important if he's to attend on Marzo. 

BRASSBOUND. What is that? 

LADY CICELY. Well — you wont mind, Mr Drinkwater, 
will you? 

DRINKWATER ^suspictous/y'] Wot is it? 

LADY CICELY. There would be so much less danger of 
erysipelas if you would be so good as to take a bath. 

DRINKWATER [agbasf] A bawth! 

BRASSBOUND [/;7 to^iss of commajid'^ Stand by, all hands. 
[They stand by~\. Take that man and wash him. \With a 
roar of laughter they seize him']. 

DRINKWATER [/>/ an agony of protest^ Naow, naow. 
Look eah — 

BRASSBOUND \ruthlessly'\ In cold water. 

DRINKWATER ^shrieking^ Na-a-a-a-ow. Aw cawnt, aw 
teol yer. Naow. Aw sy, look eah. Naow, naow, naow, 
naow, naow, NAOW!!! 

He is dragged away through the arch in a whirlwind of 
Uughter, protests and tears. 

LADY CICELY. I'm afraid he isnt used to it, poor fellow; 
but really it will do him good. Captain Brassbound. Now 
I must be off to my patient. \^She takes up her jar and goes 
out by the little door, leaving Brassbound and Sir Howard 
alone together']. 

SIR HOWARD [rising] And now. Captain Brass — 

BRASSBOUND [cuttifig him short with a fierce contempt 
that astonishes him] I will attend to you presently. \Calling] 
Johnson. Send me Johnson there. And Osman. \He pulls 
off his coat and throzvs it on the table y standing at his ease in 
his blue jersey] . 

SIR HOWARD \after a momentary flush of anger, with a 
controlled force that compels Br assbound"" s attention in spite 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 257 

of himself^. You seem to be in a strong position with 
reference to these men of yours. 

BRASSBouND. I am in a strong position with reference to 
everyone in this castle. 

SIR HOWARD \^politely but threateningly^ I have just been 
noticing that you think so. I do not agree with you. Her 
Majesty's Government, Captain Brassbound, has a strong 
arm and a long arm. If anything disagreeable happens to 
me or to my sister-in-law, that arm will be stretched out. 
If that happens you will not be in a strong position. Excuse 
my reminding you of it. 

BRASSBOUND [grimly^ Much good may it do you! [John- 
son comes in through the arch~\. Where is Osman, the Sheikh's 
messenger.? I want him too. 

JOHNSON. Coming, Captain. He had a prayer to finish. 

Osman, a ta//, skinny, whiteclad, elderly Moor, appears 
in the archway. 

BRASSBOUND. Osman AH \Osman comes forward between 
Brassbound and Johnson^', you have seen this unbeliever 
indicating Sir Howard^ come in with us.? 

OSMAN. Yea, and the shameless one with the naked face, 
who flattered my countenance and offered me her hand. 

JOHNSON. Yes; and you took it too, Johnny, didnt you.? 

BRASSBOUND. Take horse, then; and ride fast to your 
master the Sheikh Sidi el Assif — 

OSMAN [proudly^ Kinsman to the Prophet. 

BRASSBOUND. Tell him what you have seen here. That 
is all. Johnson: give him a dollar; and note the hour of his 
going, that his master may know how fast he rides. 

OSMAN. The believer's word shall prevail with Allah and 
his servant Sidi el Assif. 

BRASSBOUND. Off with you. 

OSMAN. Make good thy master's word ere I go out from 
his presence, O Johnson el Hull. 

JOHNSON. He wants the dollar. 

Brassbound gives Osman a coin. 



258 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

osMAN [^iozving^ Allah will make hell easy for the friend 
of Sidi el Assif and his servant. [He goes out through the 
arch~\ . 

BRASSBOUND [/(? Johnson'\ Keep the men out of this until 
the Sheikh comes. 1 have business to talk over. When he 
does come, we must keep together all: Sidi el Assif s natural 
instinct will be to cut every Christian throat here. 

JOHNSON. We look to you. Captain, to square him, since 
you invited him over. 

BRASSBOUND. You can depend on me; and you know it, 
I think. 

JOHNSON [phlegmatically\ Yes: we know it. [He is going 
out when Sir Howard speaks] . 

SIR How^ARD. You know also, Mr Johnson, I hope, that 
you can depend on me. 

JOHNSON [turning^ On you, sir? 

SIR HOWARD. Yes: on me. If my throat is cut, the 
Sultan of Morocco may send Sidi's head with a hundred 
thousand dollars blood-money to the Colonial Office; but 
it will not be enough to save his kingdom — any more than 
it would save your life, if your Captain here did the same 
thing. 

JOHNSON [struck] Is that so. Captain? 

BRASSBOUND. I know the gentleman's value — better per- 
haps than he knows it himself. I shall not lose sight of it. 

Johnson nods grave Ijy and is going out when Lady Cicely 
returns softly by the little door and calls to him in a whisper. 
She has taken off her travelling things and put on an apron. 
At her chatelaine is a case of sewing materials. 

LADY CICELY. Mr Johnson. [He turns\ Ive got Marzo 
to sleep. Would you mind asking the gentlemen not to make 
a noise under his window in the courtyard. 

JOHNSON. Right, maam. \He goes out]. 

Lady Cicely sits down at the tifiy table, and begins stitching 
at a sling bandage for Marzo^ s arm. Brassbound walks up 
and down on her rights muttering to himself so ominously that 



Act n Captain Brassbound's Conversion 259 

Sir Howard quietly gets out of his way by crossing to the other 
side and sitting down on the second saddle seat. 

SIR HOWARD. Are you yet able to attend to me for a 
moment. Captain Brassbound? 

BRASSBOUND \jtill Walking about'] What do you want? 

SIR HOWARD. Well, I am afraid I want a little privacy, 
and, if you will allow me to say so, a little civility. I am 
greatly obliged to you for bringing us safely off today when 
we were attacked. So far, you have carried out your con- 
tract. But since we have been your guests here, your tone 
and that of the worst of your men has changed — intentionally 
changed, I think. 

BRASSBOUND \^s topping abruptly and jiinging the announce- 
ment at him] You are not my guest: you are my prisoner. 

SIR HOWARD. Prisoner! 

Lady Cicely, after a single glance up, continues stitching, 
apparently quite unconcerned. 

BRASSBOUND. I Warned you. You should have taken my 
warning. 

SIR HOWARD '[immediately taking the tone of cold disgust 
for moral delinquency] Am I to understand, then, that you 
are a brigand? Is this a matter of ransom? 

BRASSBOUND \with unaccountabk inte?isity^ All the wealth 
of England shall not ransom you. 

SIR HOWARD. Then what do you expect to gain by this? 

BRASSBOUND. Justice on a thief and a murderer. 

Lady Cicely lays down her work and looks up anxiously. 

SIR HOWARD [deeply outraged, rising zvith venerable 
dignity^ Sir: do you apply those terms to me? 

BRASSBOUND. I do. [Hc tums to Lady Cicely, and adds, 
pointing contemptuously to Sir Howard] Look at him. You 
would not take this virtuously indignant gentleman for the 
uncle of a brigand, would you? 

Sir Howard starts. The shock is too much for him: he sits 
down again, looking very old; and his hands tremble; but his 
eyes and mouth are intrepid, resolute, and angry. 



iGo Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

LADY CICELY. Unclc! What do you mean? 

BRASSBOUND. Has he never told you about my mother? 
this fellow who puts on ermine and scarlet and calls himself 
Justice. 

SIR HOWARD \_almost voiceless^ You are the son of that 
woman ! 

BRASSBOUND [^fiercely^ "That woman!" \^He makes a 
movement as if to rush at Sir HozvarJ] . 

LADY CICELY [risi/ig qutckly and putting her hand on his 
arm\ Take care. You mustnt strike an old man; 

BRASSBOUND \raging\ He did not spare my mother — 
«*that woman," he calls her — because of her sex. I will 
not spare him because of his age. ^Lowering his tone to one 
of sullen vindictiveness^ But I am not going to strike him. 
SJ^ady Cicely releases him, and sits down^ much perplexed, 
Brassbound continues, with an evil glance at Sir Howard'^ I 
shall do no more than justice. 

SIR HOWARD \^recovering his voice and vigor"^ Justice! I 
think you mean vengeance, disguised as justice by your 
passions. 

BRASSBOUND. To many and many a poor wretch in the 
dock you have brought vengeance in that disguise — the 
vengeance of society, disguised as justice by its passions. 
Now the justice you have outraged meets you disguised as 
vengeance. How do you like it? 

SIR HOWARD. I shall meet it, I trust, as becomes an 
innocent man and an upright judge. What do you charge 
against me? 

BRASSBOUND. I chargc you with the death of my mother 
and the theft of my inheritance. 

SIR HOWARD. As to your inheritance, sir, it was yours 
whenever you came forward to claim it. Three minutes 
ago I did not know of your existence. I affirm that most 
solemnly. I never knew — never dreamt — that my brother 
Miles left a son. As to your mother, her case was a hard 
one — perhaps the hardest that has come within even my 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 26 1 

experience. I mentioned it, as such, to Mr Rankin, the 
missionary, the evening we met you. As to her death, you 
know — you must know — that she died in her native coun- 
try, years after our last meeting. Perhaps you were too young 
to know that she could hardly have expected to live long. 

BRASSBOUND. You mean that she drank. 

SIR HOWARD. / did not say so. I do not think she was 
always accountable for what she did. 

BRASSBOUND. Ycs: shc was mad too; and whether drink 
drove her to madness or madness drove her to drink matters 
little. The question is, who drove her to both.? 

SIR HOWARD. I presume the dishonest agent who seized 
her estate did. I repeat, it was a hard case — a frightful 
injustice. But it could not be remedied. 

BRASSBOUND. You told her so. When she would not 
take that false answer you drove her from your doors. When 
she exposed you in the street and threatened to take with 
her own hands the redress the law denied her, you had her 
imprisoned, and forced her to write you an apology and 
leave the country to regain her liberty and save herself from 
a lunatic asylum. And when she was gone, and dead, and 
forgotten, you found for yourself the remedy you could not 
find for her. You recovered the estate easily enough then, 
robber and rascal that you are. Did he tell the missionary 
that. Lady Cicely, eh? 

LADY CICELY \sympathetically\ Poor woman! [To Sir 
Howard] Couldnt you have helped her, Howard.? 

SIR HOWARD. No. This man may be ignorant enough to 
suppose that when I was a struggling barrister I could do 
everything I did when I was Attorney General. You know 
better. There is some excuse for his mother. She was an 
uneducated Brazilian, knowing nothing of English society, and 
driven mad by injustice. 

BRASSBOUND. Your defence — 

SIR HOWARD [interrupting him determinedly] I do not de- 
fend myself. I call on you to obey the law. 



262 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

BRASSBOUND. I intend to do so. The law of the Atlas 
Mountains is administered by the Sheikh Sidi el Assif. He 
will be here within an hour. He is a judge like yourself. 
You can talk law to him. He will give you both the law 
and the prophets. 

SIR HOWARD. Does he know what the power of England 
is? 

BRASSBOUND. He knows that the Mahdi killed my master 
Gordon, and that the Mahdi died in his bed and went to 
paradise. 

SIR HOWARD. Then he knows also that England's ven- 
geance was on the Mahdi' s track. 

BRASSBOUND. Ay, on the track of the railway from the 
Cape to Cairo. Who are you, that a nation should go to 
war for you.? If you are missing, what will your newspapers 
say.!* A foolhardy tourist. What will your learned friends at 
the bar say.? That it was time for you to make room for 
younger and better men. You a national hero! You had 
better find a goldfield in the Atlas Mountains. Then all the 
governments of Europe will rush to your rescue. Until then, 
take care of yourself; for you are going to see at last the 
hypocrisy in the sanctimonious speech of the judge who is 
sentencing you, instead of the despair in the white face of 
the wretch you are recommending to the mercy of your 
God. 

SIR HOWARD [^deeply and personally offended by this slight 
to his profession ^ and for the first time throwing away his 
assumed dignity and rising to approach Brassbound with his 
fists clenched; so that Lady Cicely lifts one eye from her work 
to assure herself that the table is between them'\ I have no 
more to say to you, sir. I am not afraid of you, nor of any 
bandit with whom you may be in league. As to your prop- 
erty, it is ready for you as soon as you come to your senses 
and claim it as your father's heir. Commit a crime, and you 
will become an outlaw, and not only lose the property, but 
shut the doors of civilization against yourself for ever. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 263 

BRASSBOUND. I Will not scIl my mother's revenge for ten 
properties. 

LADY CICELY \^placidiy\ Besides, really, Howard, as the 
property now costs ;£^'>,o z. year to keep up instead of 
bringing in anything, I am afraid it would not be of much 
use to him. \Bra5sb0und stands amazed at this revelation\. 

SIR HOWARD \taken aback^ I must say. Cicely, I think 
you might have chosen a more suitable moment to mention 
that fact. 

BRASSBOUND \with disgust'] Agh! Trickster! Lawyer! 
Even the price you offer for your life is to be paid in false 
coin. \^Call!ng\ Hallo there! Johnson! Redbrook! Some 
of you there ! \_To Sir Howard^ You ask for a little privacy: 
you shall have it. I will not endure the company of such a 
fellow. 

SIR HOWARD [very angry, and full of the crustiest plucky 
You insult me, sir. You are a rascal. You are a rascal. 

Johnson y Redbrook, and a few others come in through the 
arch. 

BRASSBOUND. Take this man away. 

JOHNSON. Where are we to put him.'' 

BRASSBOUND. Put him where you please so long as you 
can find him when he is wanted. 

SIR HOWARD. You will bc laid by the heels yet, my 
friend. 

REDBROOK \zvith cheerful tact] Tut tut. Sir Howard: 
whats the use of talking back.? Come along: we'll make 
you comfortable. 

Sir Hozvard goes out through the arch between Johnson 
and Redbrook, muttering wrathfully. The rest, except Brass- 
bound and Lady Cicely, follow, 

Brassbound walks up and down the room, nursing his in- 
dignation. In doing so he unconsciously enters upon an unequal 
contest with Lady Cicely, who sits quietly stitching. It soon 
becomes clear that a tranquil woman can go on sewing longer 
than an angry man can go on fuming. Further, it begins to 



264 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

dawn on Brassbound'' s wrath-blurred perception that Lady 
Cicely has at some unnoticed stage in the proceedings finished 
Marzo^s bandage y and is now stitching a coat. He stops; 
glances at his shirtsleeves; finally realizes the situation, 

BRASSBOUND. What are you doing there, madam? 

LADY CICELY. Mending your coat. Captain Brassbound. 

BRASSBOUND. I havc no recollection of asking you to take 
that trouble. 

LADY CICELY. No: I dont suppose you even knew it was 
torn. Some men are born untidy. You cannot very well 
receive Sidi el — what's his name? — with your sleeve half out. 

BRASSBOUND \_dis Concerted^ I — I dont know how it got 
torn. 

LADY CICELY. You should not get virtuously indignant 
with people. It bursts clothes more than anything else, Mr 
Hallam. 

BRASSBOUND [fiushing, quickly] I beg you will not call 
me Mr Hallam. I hate the name. 

LADY CICELY. Black Paquito is your pet name, isnt it? 

BRASSBOUND \_huffily'] I am not usually called so to my 
face. 

LADY CICELY [tuming the coat a little] I'm so sorry. 
\^She takes another piece of thread and puts it into her needle y 
looking placidly and reflectively upward meanwhile] . Do you 
know, you are wonderfully like your uncle. 

BRASSBOUND. Damnation! 

LADY CICELY. Eh? 

BRASSBOUND. If I thought my vems contained a drop of 
his black blood, I would drain them empty with my knife. 
I have no relations. I had a mother: that was all. 

LADY CICELY \unconvinced^ I daresay you have your 
mother's complexion. But didnt you notice Sir Howard's 
temper, his doggedness, his high spirit: above all, his belief 
in ruling people by force, as you rule your men; and in 
revenge and punishment, just as you want to revenge your 
mother? Didnt you recognize yourself in that? 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 265 

BRASSBOUND [siart/sd'j Myself! — in that! 

LADY CICELY [returning to the tailoring question as if her 
last remark were of no consequence whatever^ Did this sleeve 
catch you at all under the arm? Perhaps I had better make 
it a little easier for you. 

BRASSBOUND [/rr/V^^/y] Let my coat alone. It will do 
very well as it is. Put it down. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, dont ask me to sit doing nothing. It 
bores me so. 

BRASSBOUND. In Heavcn's name then, do what you like! 
Only dont worry me with it. 

LADY CICELY. I'm SO sorry. All the Hallams are irritable. 

BRASSBOUND \_penning up his fury with difficulty^ As I 
have already said, that remark has no application to me. 

LADY CICELY \resumi?ig her stitching\ Thats so funny! 
They all hate to be told that they are like one another. 

BRASSBOUND \jwith the beginnings of despair in his voice'^ 
Why did you come here? My trap was laid for him, not 
for you. Do you know the danger you are in? 

LADY CICELY. There's always a danger of something or 
Other. Do you think its worth bothering about? 

BRASSBOUND ^scolding her^ Do I think! Do you think 
my coat's worth mending? 

LADY CICELY [prosaically] Oh yes: its not so far gone as 
that. • 

BRASSBOUND. Havc you any feeling? Or are you a fool? 

LADY CICELY. I'm afraid I'm a dreadful fool. But I cant 
help it. I was made so, I suppose. 

BRASSBOUND. Pcrhaps you dont realize that your friend 
my good uncle will be pretty fortunate if he is allowed to 
live out his life as a slave with a set of chains on him? 

LADY CICELY. Oh, I doHt know about that, Mr H — I 
mean Captain Brassbound. Men are always thinking that 
they are going to do something grandly wicked to their 
enemies; but when it comes to the point, really bad men 
are just as rare as really good ones. 



266 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

BRASSBOUND. You foFgct that I am like my uncle, accord- 
ing to you. Have you any doubt as to the reality of his 
badness? 

LADY CICELY. Bless me! your uncle Howard is one of 
the most harmless of men — much nicer than most pro- 
fessional people. Of course he does dreadful things as a 
judge; but then if you take a man and pay him ^^5,000 a 
year to be wicked, and praise him for it, and have police- 
men and courts and laws and juries to drive him into it so 
that he cant help doing it, what can you expect.? Sir 
Howard's all right when he's left to himself. We caught a 
burglar one night at Waynflete when he was staying with us; 
and I insisted on his locking the poor man up, until the 
police came, in a room with a window opening on the lawn. 
The man came back next day and said he must return to a 
life of crime unless I gave him a job in the garden; and I 
did. It was much more sensible than giving him ten years 
penal servitude: Howard admitted it. So you see he's not a 
bit bad really. 

BRASSBOUND. He had a fellow feeling for the thief, 
knowing he was a thief himself. Do you forget that he sent 
my mother to prison.? 

LADY CICELY \_so/f/y'] Were you very fond of your poor 
mother, and always very good to her.? 

BRASSBOUND [rather taken abac1i\ I was not worse than 
other sons, I suppose. 

LADY CICELY [opening her eyes very widely'] Oh ! Was 
that all? 

BRASSBOUND [fxculpatiug himselfy full of gloomy remem- 
brances] You dont understand. It was not always possible 
to be very tender with my mother. She had unfortunately 
a very violent temper; and she — she — 

LADY CICELY. Yes: so you told Howard. [With genuine 
pity for him] You must have had a very unhappy childhood. 

BRASSBOUND [grimly] Hell. That was what my child- 
hood was. Hell. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 267 

LADY CICELY. Do you think she would really have killed 
Howard, as she threatened, if he hadnt sent her to prison? 

BRASSBOUND [breaking out again, with a growing sense of 
being morally trapped^ What if she did? Why did he rob 
her? Why did he not help her to get the estate, as he got 
it for himself afterwards? 

LADY CICELY. He says he couldnt, you know. But per- 
haps the real reason was that he didnt like her. You know, 
dont you, that if you dont like people you think of all the 
reasons for not helping them, and if you like them you 
think of all the opposite reasons. 

BRASSBOUND. But his duty as a brother! 

LADY CICELY. Are you going to do your duty as a nephew? 

BRASSBOUND. Dont quibblc with me. I am going to do 
my duty as a son; and you know it. 

LADY CICELY. But I should havc thought that the time 
for that was in your mother's lifetime, when you could have 
been kind and forbearing with her. Hurting your uncle 
wont do her any good, you know. 

BRASSBOUND. It wiU teach other scoundrels to respect 
widows and orphans. Do you forget that there is such a 
thing as justice? 

LADY CICELY \_gaily shaking out the finished coat'\ Oh, if 
you are going to dress yourself in ermine and call yourself 
Justice, I give you up. You are just your uncle over again; 
only he gets ;^5,ooo a year for it, and you do it for noth- 
ing. ^She holds the coat up to see whether any further repairs 
are needed^ . 

BRASSBOUND [sulkHy"] You twist my words very cleverly. 
But no man or woman has ever changed me. 

LADY CICELY. Dear me! That must be very nice for the 
people you deal with, because they can always depend on 
you; but isnt it rather inconvenient for yourself when you 
change your mind? 

BRASSBOUND. I ncvcr change my mind. 

LADY CICELY \rising with the coat in her hands'^ Oh! Oh!! 



268 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

Nothing will ever persuade me that you are as pigheaded as 
that. 

BRASSBOUND [offended~^ Pigheaded! 

LADY CICELY \zvith quicky c dressing apologj\ No, no, no. 
I didnt mean that. Firm! Unalterable! Resolute! Iron- 
willed! Stonewall Jackson! Thats the idea, isnt it? 

BRASSBOUND \hopelesslj\ You are laughing at me. 

LADY CICELY. No: trembling, I assure you. Now will 
you try this on for me: I'm so afraid I have made it too 
tight under the arm. \_She holds it behind him~\ . 

BRASSBOND [ohying mechanicallj\ You take me for a fool, 
I think. \He misses the sleeve'^ . 

LADY CICELY. No: all men look foolish when they are 
feeling for their sleeves — 

BRASSBOUND. Agh ! \He tums and snatches the coat from 
her; then puts it on himself and buttons the lowest button'^ . 

LADY CICELY \horrijied'\ Stop. No. You must never 
pull a coat at the skirts. Captain Brassbound: it spoils the 
sit of it. Allow me. \She pulls the lappels of his coat vigor- 
ously forward"]^ Put back your shoulders. \He frown Sy but 
obeys^ Thats better. \^She buttons the top button^. Now 
button the rest from the top down. Does it catch you at 
all under the arm? 

BRASSBOUND [miserably — all resistance beaten out of him'] 
No. 

LADY CICELY. Thats right. Now before I go back to poor 
Marzo, say thank you to me for mending your jacket, like a 
nice polite sailor. 

BRASSBOUND [sitting down at the table in great agitation] 
Damn you! you have belittled my whole life to me. [He 
bows bis head on his hands, convulsed^. 

LADY CICELY [quite understanding, and putting her hand 
kindly on his shoulder] Oh no. I am sure you have done lots 
of kind things and brave things, if you could only recollect 
them. With Gordon for instance? Nobody can belittle 
that. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 269 

He looks up at her for a moment; then kisses her hand. 
She presses his and turns away with her eyes so wet that she 
sees Drinkwater, coming in through the arch just then, with 
a prismatic halo round him. Even when she sees him clear ly^ 
she hardly recognizes him; for he is ludicrously clean and 
smoothly brushed; and his hair, formerly mud color y is now a 
lively red. 

DRiNKWATER. Look cah, Icepn. \_Brassbound springs up 
and recovers himself quickly'] . Eahs the bloomin Shike jest 
appeahd on the orawzn wiv abaht fifty men. Thyll be eah 
insawd o ten minnits, they will. 

LADY CICELY. The Sheikh! 

BRASSBOUND. Sidi el Assif and fifty men! [To Lady 
Cicely^ You were too late: I gave you up my vengeance 
when it was no longer in my hand. [ To Drinkwater] Call 
all hands to stand by and shut the gates. Then all here to 
me for orders; and bring the prisoner. 

DRINKWATER. Rawt, kepn. \^He runs out~\. 

LADY CICELY. Is there really any danger for Howard? 

BRASSBOUND. Yes. Danger for all of us unless I keep to 
my bargain with this fanatic. 

LADY CICELY. What bargain.? 

BRASSBOUND. I pay him so much a head for every party 
I escort through to the interior. In return he protects me 
and lets my caravans alone. But I have sworn an oath to 
him to take only Jews and true believers — no Christians, 
you understand. 

LADY CICELY. Then why did you take us? 

BRASSBOUND. I took my uncle on purpose — and sent 
word to Sidi that he was here. 

LADY CICELY. Well, thats a pretty kettle of fish, isnt it? 

BRASSBOUND. I will do what 1 can to save him — and 
you. But I fear my repentance has come, too late, as 
repentance usually does. 

LADY CICELY [^chccrfully'] Well, I must go and look after 
Marzo, at all events. \^She goes out through the little door. 



270 Three Plays for Puritans Act ll 

Johnson, Redbrook and the rest come in through the arch, 
with Sir Howard, still very crusty and determined. He keeps 
close to Johnson, who comes to Brassbound'' s right, Redbrook 
taking the other side\ . 

BRASSBOUND. Where' s Drink water? 

JOHNSON. On the lookout. Look here, Capn: we dont 
half like this job. The gentleman has been talking to us a bit; 
and we think that he is a gentleman, and talks straight sense. 

REDBROOK. Righto, Brother Johnson. \T'o Brassbound^ 
Wont do, governor. Not good enough. 

BRASSBOUND [fiercely^ Mutiny, eh? 

REDBROOK. Not at all, governor. Dont talk Tommy rot 
with Brother Sidi only five minutes gallop oiF. Cant hand 
over an Englishman to a nigger to have his throat cut. 

BRASSBOUND [unexpectedly acquiescing^ Very good. You 
know, I suppose, that if you break my bargain with Sidi, 
youll have to defend this place and fight for your lives in 
five minutes. That cant be done without discipline: you 
know that too. I'll take my part with the rest under what- 
ever leader you are willing to obey. So choose your captain 
and look sharp about it. \_Murmurs of surprise and dis- 
content~\ . 

VOICES. No, no. Brassbound must command. 

BRASSBOUND. Yourc Wasting your five minutes. Try 
Johnson. 

JOHNSON. No. I havnt the head for it. 

BRASSBOUND. Well, Rcdbrook. 

REDBROOK. Not this Johnny, thank you. Havnt character 
enough. 

BRASSBOUND. Well, there's Sir Howard Hallam for you! 
He has character enough. 

A VOICE. He's too old. 

ALL. No, no. Brassbound, Brassbound. 

JOHNSON. Theres nobody but you. Captain. 

REDBROOK. The mutiny's over, governor. You win, 
hands down. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 271 

BRASSBOUND \turning on thern^ Now listen, you, all of 
you. If I am to command here, I am going to do what I like, 
not what you like. I'll give this gentleman here to Sidi or 
to the devil if I choose. I'll not be intimidated or talked 
back to. Is that understood? 

REDBROOK [diplomatically] He's offered a present of five 
hundred quid if he gets safe back to Mogador, governor. 
Excuse my mentioning it. 

SIR HOWARD. Myself and Lady Cicely. 

BRASSBOUND. What! A judge compound a felony ! You 
greenhorns, he is more likely to send you all to penal 
servitude if you are fools enough to give him the chance. 

VOICES. So he would. Whew! [Murmurs of conviction]. 

REDBROOK. Righto, govcmor. Thats the ace of trumps. 

BRASSBOUND \to Sir Howard] Now, have you any other 
card to play.? Any other bribe? Any other threat? Quick. 
Time presses. 

SIR HOWARD. My Hfe is in the hands of Providence. Do 
your worst. 

BRASSBOUND. Or my best. I still have that choice. 

DRiNKWATER [running in] Look eah, kepn. Eahs anather 
lot cammin from the sahth heast. Hunnerds of em, this 
tawm. The owl dezzit is lawk a bloomin Awd Pawk 
demonstrition. Aw blieve its the Kidy from Kintorfy. 
[General alarm. All look to Brassbound]. 

BRASSBOUND [eagerly] The Cadi! How far off? 

DRINKWATER. Matter o two mawl. 

BRASSBOUND. We're saved. Open the gates to the Sheikh. 

DRINKWATER [appalled, almost in tears] Naow, naow. 
Lissn, kepn [pointing to Sir Howard] : e'll give huz fawv 
unnerd red uns. [ To the others] Ynt yer spowk to im, 
Miste Jornsn — Miste Redbrook — 

BRASSBOUND [cutting him short] Now then, do you 
understand plain EngHsh? Johnson and Redbrook: take 
what men you want and open the gates to the Sheikh. Let 
him come straight to me. Look alive, will you. 



272 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

JOHNSON. Ay ay, sir. 

REDBROOK. Righto, govcmor. 

' Tbey hurry out, with a few others. Drinkwater stares 
after themy dumbfounded by their obedience. 

BRASSBOUND [^taking out a pistol~\ You wanted to sell me 
to my prisoner, did you, you dog. 

DRINKWATER [falling on his knees with a yell'\ Naow ! 
[Brassbound turns on him as if to kick him. He scrambles 
away and takes refuge behind Sir Howard'], 

BRASSBOUND. Sir Howard Hallam: you have one chance 
left. The Cadi of Kintafi stands superior to the Sheikh as 
the responsible governor of the whole province. It is the 
Cadi who vf\\\ be sacrificed by the Sultan if England 
demands satisfaction for any injury to you. If we can hold 
the Sheikh in parley until the Cadi arrives, you may 
frighten the Cadi into forcing the Sheikh to release you. 
The Cadi's coming is a lucky chance for you. 

SIR HOWARD. If it were a real chance, you would not 
tell me of it. Dont try to play cat and mouse with me, man. 

DRINKWATER [aside to Sir Howard, as Brdssbound turns 
contemptuously away to the other side of the room\ It ynt 
mach of a chawnst, Sr Ahrd. But if there was a ganbowt in 
Mogador Awbr, awd put a bit on it, aw would. 

Johnson, Redbrook, and the others return, rather mis- 
trustfully ushering in Sidi el Assif, attended by Osman and a 
troop of Arabs. Brassbound^s men keep together on the arch- 
way side, backing their captain. Sidi^s followers cross the 
room behind the table and assemble near Sir Howard, who 
stands his ground. Drinkwater runs across to Brassbound and 
stands at his elbow as he turns to face Sidi. 

Sidi el Assif, clad in spotless white, is a nobly handsome 
Araby hardly thirty, with fine eyes, bfonzed complexion, and 
instinctively dignified carriage. He places himself between the 
two groups, with Osman in attendance at his right hand. 

osMAN [pointing out Sir Howard] This is the infidel 
Cadi. [Sir Howard bows to Sidiy but, -being an infidel. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 273 

receives only the haughtiest stare in acknowledgement^ . This 
\_pointing to Brassboun(f\ is Brassbound the Franguestani 
captain, the servant of Sidi. 

DRiNKWATER \not to be outdone, points out the Sheikh and 
Osman to Brassbound''^ This eah is the Commawnder of the 
Fythful an is Vizzeer Hosman. 

SIDI. Where is the woman? 

OSMAN. The shameless one is not here. 

BRASSBOUND. Sidi el Assif, kinsman of the Prophet: you 
are welcome. 

REDBROOK \with much aplomb^ There is no majesty and 
no might save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great! 

DRINKWATER. Eah, cah ! 

OSMAN [/o Sidi\ The servant of the captain makes his 
profession of faith as a true believer. 

SIDI. It is well. 

BRASSBOUND \aside to RedbrooJi\ Where did you pick 
that up.? 

REDBROOK '^aside to Brassbound^ Captain Burton's Arabian 
Nights — copy in the library of the National Liberal Club. 

LADY CICELY \calling zvithout'\ Mr Drinkwater. Come 
and help me with Marzo. \^The Shetkh pricks tip his ears. 
His nostrils and eyes expand \. 

OSMAN. The shameless one! 

BRASSBOUND \jo Drinkwater^ seizing him by the collar and 
slinging him towards the door^ Off with you. 

Drinkwater goes out through the little door. 

OSMAN. Shall we hide her face before she enters? 

SlDI. No. 

Lady Cicely, who has resumed her travelling equipment, 
and has her hat slung across her arm, comes through the little 
door supporting Marzo, who is very white, but able to get 
about. Drinkzvater has his other arm. Redbrook hastens to 
relieve Lady Cicely of Marzo, taking him into the group be- 
hind Brassbound. Lady Cicely comes forward betzueen Brass- 
bound and the Sheikh, to whom she turns affably. 



274 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

LADY CICELY \_prqff'ertng her ha?id'\ Sidi el Assif, isnt it? 
How dye do? \He recoilsy blushing somewhat^. 

osMAN \jcandalizedl^ Woman; touch not the kinsman of 
the Prophet. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, I sce. I'm being presented at court. 
Very good. ^She makes a presentation curtsey^. 

REDBROOK. Sidi cl Assif: this is one of the mighty 
women Sheikhs of Franguestan. She goes unveiled among 
Kings; and only princes may touch her hand. 

LADY CICELY. Allah upon thee, Sidi el Assif! Be a good 
little Sheikh, and shake hands. 

SIDI [timidly touching her hand'\ Now this is a wonderful 
thing, and worthy to be chronicled with the story of Solo- 
mon and the Queen of Sheba. Is it not so, Osman Ali? 

osMAN. Allah upon thee, master! it is so. 

SIDI. Brassbound Ali: the oath of a just man fulfils itself 
without many words. The infidel Cadi, thy captive, falls 
to my share. 

BRASSBOUND [Jirmly'\ It cannot be, Sidi el Assif [SidP s 
brows contract gravely^ The price of his blood will be re- 
quired of our lord the Sultan. I will take him to Morocco 
and deliver him up there. 

SIDI \impressively'\ Brassbound: I am in mine own house 
and amid mine own people. / am the Sultan here. Con- 
sider what you say; for when my word goes forth for life 
or death, it may not be recalled. 

BRASSBOUND. Sidi el Assif: I will buy the man from you 
at what price you choose to name; and if I do not pay 
faithfully, you shall take my head for his. 

SIDI. It is well. You shall keep the man, and give me 
the woman in payment. 

SIR HOWARD AND BRASSBOUND \_with the Same impulse^ No, 
no. 

LADY CICELY [eagerly^ Yes, yes. Certainly, Mr Sidi. 
Certainly. 

Sidi smiles gravely. 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 275 

SIR HOWARD. Impossible. 

BRASSBOUND. You dont know what youre doing. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, dont I.? Ive not crossed Africa and 
stayed with six cannibal chiefs for nothing. [To the SheikF^ 
It's all right, Mr Sidi: I shall be delighted. 

SIR HOWARD. You arc mad. Do you suppose this man 
will treat you as a European gentleman would? 

LADY CICELY. No: he'll treat me like one of Nature's 
gentlemen: look at his perfectly splendid face! [Addressing 
Osman as if he were her oldest arid most attached retainer^ 
Osman: be sure you choose me a good horse; and get a 
nice strong camel for my luggage. 

Osman, after a moment of stupefaction, hurries out. Lady 
Cicely puts on her hat and pins it to her hair, the Sheikh 
gazing at her during the process with timid admiration. 

DRINK WATER [chuckling'\ She'll mawch em all to church 
next Sunder lawk a bloomin lot o' cherrity kids: you see if 
she downt. 

LADY CICELY [busHyl^ Goodbye, Howard: dont be 
anxious about me; and above all, dont bring a parcel of 
men with guns to rescue me. I shall be all right now that 
I am getting away from the escort. Captain Brassbound: 
I rely on you to see that Sir Howard gets safe to Mogador. 
[PFhispering'] Take your hand off that pistol. [He takes his 
hand out of his pocket, reluctantly^ . Goodbye. 

A tumult without. They all turn apprehensively to the 
arch. Osman rushes in. 

osMAN. The Cadi, the Cadi. He is in anger. His men 
are upon us. Defend — 

The Cadi, a vigorous, fatfeatured, choleric, whitehaired 
and bearded elder, rushes in, cudgel in hand, with an over- 
whelming retinue, and silences Osman with a sounding thwack. 
In a moment the back of the room is crowded with his fol- 
lowers. The Sheikh retreats a little towards his men; and 
the Cadi comes impetuously forward between him and Lady 
Cicely. 



276 Three Plays for Puritans Act II 

THE CADI. Now woe upon thee, Sidi el Assif, thou 
child of mischief! 

SIDI [sUrn/y^ Am I a dog, Muley Othman, that thou 
speakest thus to me? 

THE CADI. Wilt thou destroy thy country, and give us 
all into the hands of them that set the sea on fire but 
yesterday with their ships of war? Where are the Fran- 
guestani captives? 

LADY CICELY. Here we are. Cadi. How dye do? 

THE CADI. Allah upon thee, thou moon at the full! 
Where is thy kinsman, the Cadi of Franguestan? I am his 
friend, his servant. I come on behalf of my master the 
Sultan to do him honor, and to cast down his enemies. 

SIR HOWARD. You are very good, I am sure. 

SIDI [graver thati ever\ Muley Othman — 

THE CADI \_fumbling in his breast\ Peace, peace, thou 
inconsiderate one. [//<? takes out a letter]. 

BRASSBOUND. Cadi — 

THE CADI. Oh thou dog, thou, thou accursed Brassbound, 
son of a wanton: it is thou hast led Sidi el Assif into this 
wrongdoing. Read this writing that thou hast brought upon 
me from the commander of the warship. 

BRASSBOUND. Warship ! \^He takes the letter and opens it, 
his men whispering to one another very low-spiritedly mean- 
while~\ . 

REDBROOK. Warship! Whew! 

JOHNSON. Gunboat, praps. 

DRINK WATER. Lawk bloomin Worterleoo buses, they 
are, on this cowst. 

Brassbound folds up the letter, looking glum. 

SIR HOWARD \jharply'] Well, sir, are we not to have the 
benefit of that letter? Your men are waiting to hear it, I 
think. 

BRASSBOUND. It is not a British ship. [Sir Howard* s 
face falls'] . 

LADY CICELY. What is it, then? 



Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 277 

BRASSBOUND. An American cruiser. The Santiago. 

THE CADI [^tearing his beard"^ Woe! alas! it is where they 
set the sea on fire. 

siDi. Peace, Muley Othman: Allah is still above us. 

JOHNSON. Would you mind readin it to us, capn? 

BRASSBOUND [grimly^ Oh, I'll read it to you. ** Mogador 
Harbor. 26 Sept 1899. Captain Hamlin Kearney, of the 
cruiser Santiago, presents the compliments of the United 
States to the Cadi Muley Othman el Kintafi, and announces 
that he is coming to look for the two British travellers Sir 
Howard Hallam and Lady Cicely Waynflete, in the Cadi's 
jurisdiction. As the search will be conducted with machine 
guns, the prompt return of the travellers to Mogador 
Harbor will save much trouble to all parties." 

THE CADI. As I live, O Cadi, and thou, moon of loveli- 
ness, ye shall be led back to Mogador with honor. And 
thou, accursed Brassbound, shalt go thither a prisoner in 
chains, thou and thy people. [^Brassbound and his men make 
a movement to defend themselves'^. Seize them. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, plcasc dont fight. [Brassbound, seeing 
that his men are hopelessly outnumbered^ makes no resistance^ 
They are made prisoners by the Cadi"* s followers']^, 

SIDI [attempting to draw his scimitar'] The woman is 
mine: I will not forego her. [He is seized and overpowered 
after a Homeric struggle"]^ . 

SIR HOWARD [drily] I told you you were not in a strong 
position. Captain Brassbound. [Looking implacably at him"] 
You are laid by the heels, my friend, as I said you would be. 

LADY CICELY. But I assure you — 

BRASSBOUND [^interrupting her] What have you to assure 
him of .^ You persuaded me to spare him. Look at his face. 
Will you be able to persuade him to spare me.? 



ACT III 

Torrid forenoon filtered through small Moorish windows 
high up in the adobe walls of the largest room in Leslie 
Rankin' s house. A clean cool room ^ with the table (a Christian 
article) set in the middle y a presidentially elbowed chair behind 
ity and an inkstand and paper ready for the sitter. A couple 
of cheap American chairs right and left of the table ^ facing 
the same way as the presidential chair y give a judicial aspect 
to the arrangement. Rankin is placing a little tray with a 
jug and some glasses near the inkstand when Lady Cicely' s 
voice is heard at the door, which is behind him in the corner 
to his right. 

LADY CICELY. Good moming. May I come in? 

RANKIN. Certainly. \^he comes in to the nearest end of 
the table. She has discarded all travelling equipment y and is 
dressed exactly as she might be in Surrey on a very hot day\. 
Sit ye doon, Leddy Ceecily. 

LADY CICELY [sittifig down] How nice youve made the 
room for the inquiry! 

RANKIN [doubtfully'] I could wish there were more chairs. 
Yon American captain will preside in this; and that leaves 
but one for Sir Howrrd and one for your leddyship. I 
could almost be tempted to call it a maircy that your friend 
that owns the yacht has sprained his ankle and cannot come. 
I misdoubt me it will not look judeecial to have Captain 
Kearney's officers squatting on the floor. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, they wont mind. What about the 
prisoners? 

RANKIN. They are to be broat here from the town gaol 
presently. 

278 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 279 

LADY CICELY. And whcrc is that silly old Cadi, and my 
handsome Sheikh Sidi? I must see them before the inquiry, 
or theyll give Captain Kearney quite a false impression of 
what happened. 

RANKIN. But ye cannot see them. They decamped last 
night, back to their castles in the Atlas. 

LADY CICELY \_delighted~\ No! 

RANKIN. Indeed and they did. The poor Cadi is so 
tarrified by all he has haird of the destruction of the Spanish 
fleet, that he darent trust himself in the captain's hands. 
^Looking reproachfully at her~\ On your journey back 'here, 
ye seem to have frightened the poor man yourself, Leddy 
Ceecily, by talking to him about the fanatical Chreestianity 
of the Americans. Ye have largely yourself to thank if he's 
gone. 

LADY CICELY. Allah be praised! What a weight off our 
minds, Mr Rankin! 

RANKIN [^puzzledl^ And why? Do ye not understand 
how necessary their evidence is? 

LADY CICELY. Their evidence! It would spoil every- 
thing. They would perjure themselves out of pure spite 
against poor Captain Brassbound. 

RANKIN [amazed~\ Do ye call him poor Captain Brass- 
bound! Does not your leddyship know that this Brassbound 
is — Heaven forgive me for judging him! — a precious 
scoundrel? Did ye not hear what Sir Kowrrd told me on the 
yacht last night? 

LADY CICELY. All a mistake, Mr Rankin: all a mistake, 
I assure you. You said just now. Heaven forgive you for 
judging him! Well, thats just what the whole quarrel is 
about. Captain Brassbound is just like you: he thinks we 
have no right to judge one another; and as Sir Howard gets 
^5,000 a year for doing nothing else but judging people, 
he thinks poor Captain Brassbound a regular Anarchist. 
They quarreled dreadfully at the castle. You mustnt mind 
what Sir Howard says about him: you really mustnt. 



2 8o Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RANKIN. But his conduct — 

LADY CICELY. Perfectly saintly, Mr Rankin. Worthy of 
yourself in your best moments. He forgave Sir Howard, 
and did all he could to save him. 

RANKIN. Ye astoanish me, Leddy Ceecily. 

LADY CICELY. And think of the temptation to behave 
badly when he had us all there helpless! 

RANKIN. The temptation! ay: thats true. Yere ower 
bonny to be cast away among a parcel o lone, lawless men, 
my leddy. 

LADY CICELY [naively^ Bless me, thats quite true; and I 
never thought of it! Oh, after that you really must do all 
you can to help Captain Brassbound. 

RANKIN [reservedly^ No: I cannot say that, Leddy 
Ceecily. I doubt he has imposed on your good nature and 
sweet disposeetion. I had a crack with the Cadi as well as 
with Sir Howrrd; and there is little question in my mind 
but that Captain Brassbound is no better than a breegand. 

LADY CICELY [apparently deeply impressed^ 1 wonder 
whether he can be, Mr Rankin. If you think so, thats 
heavily against him in my opinion, because you have more 
knowledge of men than anyone else here. Perhaps I'm 
mistaken. I only thought you might like to help him as the 
son of your old friend. 

RANKIN [startled'^ The son of my old friend! What 
d'ye mean? 

LADY CICELY, Oh! Didnt Sir Howard tell you that? 
Why, Captain Brassbound turns out to be Sir Howard's 
nephew, the son of the brother you knew. 

RANKIN [overzvhelmed~\ I saw the likeness the night he 
came here! It's true: it's true. Uncle and nephew! 

LADY CICELY. Yes: thats why they quarrelled so. 

RANKIN [with a momentary sense of ill usage~\ I think 
Sir Howrrd might have told me that. 

LADY CICELY. Of course he ought to have told you. 
You see he only tells one side of the story. That comes 



Act III Captain Brassbound^s Conversion 281 

from his training as a barrister. You mustiit think he's 
naturally deceitful: if he'd been brought up as a clergyman, 
he'd have told you the whole truth as a matter of course. 

RANKIN [/(?«? much perturbed to dwell on his grievance^ 
Leddy Ceecily: I must go to the prison and see the lad. 
He may have been a bit wild; but I can't leave poor 
Miles' s son unbefriended in a foreign gaol. 

LADY CICELY ^risingy radiaTit^ Oh, how good of you! 
You have a real kind heart of gold, Mr Rankin. Now, be- 
fore you go, shall we just put our heads together, and con- 
sider how to give Miles' s son every chance — I mean of 
course every chance that he ought to have. 

RANKIN [rather addled^ I am so confused by this astoan- 
ishing news — 

LADY CICELY. Ycs, ycs: of course you are. But dont 
you think he would make a better impression on the Ameri- 
can captain if he were a little more respectably dressed.? 

RANKIN. Mebbe. But how can .that be remedied here in 
Mogador? 

LADY CICELY. Oh, Ivc thought of that. You know I'm 
going back to England by way of Rome, Mr Rankin; and 
I'm bringing a portmanteau full of clothes for my brother 
there: he's ambassador, you know, and has to be very 
particular as to what he wears. I had the portmanteau 
brought here this morning. Now would you mind taking 
it to the prison, and smartening up Captain Brassbound a 
little. Tell him he ought to do it to shew his respect for 
me; and he will. It will be quite easy: there are two 
Krooboys waiting to carry the portmanteau. You will: I 
know you will. \^She edges him to the doorl^ . And do you 
think there is time to get him shaved.? 

RANKIN ^succumbing, half bewildered^ I'll do my best. 

LADY CICELY. I know you will. \As he is going out'\ 
Oh! one word, Mr Rankin. \He comes baclf\. The Cadi 
didnt know that Captain Brassbound was Sir Howard's 
nephew, did he? 



282 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

RANKIN. No. 

LADY CICELY. Then he must have misunderstood every- 
thing quite dreadfully. I'm afraid, Mr Rankin — though 
you know best, of course — that we are bound not to repeat 
anything at the inquiry that the Cadi said. He didnt know, 
you see. 

RANKIN [^canni/y'\ I take your point, Leddy Ceecily. It 
alters the case. I shall certainly make no allusion to it. 

LADY CICELY \_magnanmous/y^ Well, then, I wont either. 
There! 

They shake hands on it. Sir Howard comes in. 

SIR HOWARD. Good moming, Mr Rankin. I hope you 
got home safely from the yacht last night. 

RANKIN. Quite safe, thank ye. Sir Howrrd. 

LADY CICELY. Howard I he's in a hurry. Dont make 
him stop to talk. 

SIR HOWARD. Very good, very good. [He comes to the 
table and takes Lady Cicelf s chair] . 

RANKIN. Oo revoir, Leddy Ceecily. 

LADY CICELY. Bless you, Mr Rankin. [^Rankin goes out. 
She comes to the other end of the table, looking at Sir How- 
ard with a troubled, sorrowfully sympathetic air, but un- 
consciously making her right hand stalk about the table on the 
tips of its fingers in a tentative stealthy way which would put 
Sir Howard on his guard if he were in a suspicious frame of 
mindy which, as it happens, he is not^. I'm so sorry for you, 
Howard, about this unfortunate inquiry. 

SIR HOWARD [swinging round on his chair, astonished] 
Sorry for me! Why? 

LADY CICELY. It will look SO dreadful. Your own 
nephew, you know. 

SIR HOWARD. Cicely: an English judge has no nephews, 
no sons even, when he has to carry out the law. 

LADY CICELY. But then he oughtnt to have any property 
either. People will never understand about the West Indian 
Estate. Theyll think youre the wicked uncle out of the 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 283 

Babes in the Wood. [fViih a fresh gush of compass ion\ I'm 
so so sorry for you. 

SIR HOWARD \rather stiffly^ I really do not see how I 
need your commiseration. Cicely. The woman was an 
impossible person, half mad, half drank. Do you understand 
what such a creature is when she has a grievance, and 
imagines some innocent person to be the author of it? 

LADY CICELY \with a touch of impatience^ Oh, quite. 
That 11 be made clear enough. I can see it all in the papers 
already: our half mad, half drunk sister-in-law, making 
scenes with you in the street, with the police called in, and 
prison and all the rest of it. The family will be furious. 
[5/r Howard quails. She instantly follows up her advantage 
with~\ Think of papa! 

SIR HOWARD. I shall expcct Lord Waynflete to look at 
the matter as a reasonable man. 

LADY CICELY. Do you think he's so greatly changed as 
that, Howard.? 

SIR HOWARD \_falling back on the fatalism of the deper- 
sonalized public maff\ My dear Cicely: there is no use dis- 
cussing the matter. It cannot be helped, however disagree- 
able it may be. 

LADY CICELY. Of course not. Thats whats so dreadful. 
Do you think people will understand.? 

SIR HOWARD. I really cannot say. Whether they do or 
not, / cannot help it. 

LADY CICELY. If you wcre anybody but a judge, it 
wouldnt matter so much. But a judge mustnt even be 
misunderstood. [Despairingly'] Oh, it's dreadful, Howard: 
it's terrible! What would poor Mary say if she were alive 
now.? 

SIR HOWARD \with emotioif] I dont think. Cicely, that 
my dear wife would misunderstand me. 

LADY CICELY. No: shc'd know you mean well. And 
when you came home and said, *'Mary: Ive just told all 
the world that your sister-in-law was a police court criminal. 



284 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

and that I sent her to prison; and your nephew is a brigand, 
and I'm sending him to prison," she'd have thought it 
must be all right because you did it. But you dont think she 
would have liked it, any more than papa and the rest of 
us, do you? 

SIR HOWARD \_appalled\ But what am_I to do? Do you 
ask me to compound a felony? 

LADY CICELY \sternly\ Certainly not. I would not allow 
such a thing, even if you were wicked enough to attempt 
it. No. What I say is, that you ought not to tell the story 
yourself. 

SIR HOWARD. Why? 

LADY CICELY. Because everybody would say you are such 
a clever lawyer you could make a poor simple sailor like 
Captain Kearney believe anything. The proper thing for 
you to do, Howard, is to let me tell the exact truth. Then 
you can simply say that you are bound to confirm me. 
Nobody can blame you for that. 

SIR HOWARD \loohing suspiciously at her\ Cicely: you are 
up to some devilment. 

LADY CICELY \^promptly washing her hands of his interests] 
Oh, very well. Tell the story yourself, in your own clever 
way. I only proposed to tell the exact truth. You call that 
devilment. So it is, I daresay, from a lawyer's point of 
view. 

SIR HOWARD. I hope youre not offended. 

LADY CICELY [with the utmost goodhumor'\ My dear 
Howard, not a bit. Of course youre right: you know how 
these things ought to be done. I'll do exactly what you tell 
me, and confirm everything you say. 

SIR HOWARD [alarmed by the completeness of his victory"] 
Oh, my dear, you mustnt act in my interest. You must 
give your evidence with absolute impartiality. [She nods, 
as if thoroughly impressed and reproved, and gazes at him with 
the steadfast candor peculiar to liars who read novels. His eyes 
turn to the ground; and his brow clouds perplexedly. He 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 285 

rises; rubs his chin nervously with his forefinger; and adds^ 
I think, perhaps, on reflection, that there is something to be 
said for your proposal to relieve me of the very painful 
duty of telling what has occurred. 

LADY CICELY [holding off^ But youd do it so very much 
better. 

SIR HOWARD. For that very reason, perhaps, it had better 
come from you. 

LADY CICELY \reluctantlj\ Well, if youd rather. 

SIR HOWARD. But mind. Cicely, the exact truth. 

LADY CICELY \with conviction'\ The exact truth. \They 
shake hands on //] . 

SIR HOWARD [holding her hand^ Fiatjustitia: ruat coelum! 

LADY CICELY. Let Justicc be done, though the ceiling 
fall. 

An American bluejacket appears at the door. 

BLUEJACKET. Captain Kearney's caw^mpliments to Lady 
Waynflete; and may he come in? 

LADY CICELY. Ycs. By all means. Where are the 
prisoners? 

BLUEJACKET. Party gawn to the jail to fetch em, marm. 

LADY CICELY. Thank you, I should like to be told when 
they are coming, if I might. 

BLUEJACKET. You shall SO, marm. [He stands aside y 
saluting t to admit his captain y and goes out.^ 

Captain Hamlin Kearney is a robustly built western 
American, with the keen, squeezed, wind beaten eyes and 
obstinately enduring mouth of his profession. A curious eth- 
nological specimen, with all the nations of the old world at 
war in his veins, he is developing artificially in the direction 
of sleekness and culture under the restraints of an overwhelm- 
ing dread of European criticism, and climatically in the 
direction of the indigenous North American, who is already 
in possession of his hair, his cheekbones, and the manlier in- 
stincts in him which the sea has rescued from civilization. 
The world, pondering on the great part of its own future 



286 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

zvhich is in his han^dsy contemplates him with wonder as to 
what the devil he will evolve into in another century or two. 
Meanwhile he presents himself to Lady Cicely as a blunt sailor 
who has something to say to her concerning her conduct which 
he wishes to put politely ^ as becomes an officer addressing a 
ladyy but also with an emphatically implied rebuke, as an 
American addressing an English person who has taken a 
liberty. 

LADY CICELY \as he enters'] So glad youve come. Captain 
Kearney. 

KEARNEY [coming between Sir Howard and Lady Cicely^ 
When we parted yesterday ahfternoon, Lady Waynflete, I 
was unaware that in the course of your visit to my ship you 
had entirely altered the sleeping arrangements of my stokers. 
I thahnk you. As captain of the ship, I am customairily 
cawnsulted before the orders of English visitors are carried 
out; but as your alterations appear to cawndooce to the 
comfort of the men, I have not interfered with them. 

LADY CICELY. How clcvcr of you to find out! I believe 
you know every bolt in that ship. 

Kearney softens perceptibly. 

SIR HOWARD. I am really very sorry that my sister-in-law 
has taken so serious a liberty. Captain Kearney. It is a 
mania of hers — simply a mania. Why did your men pay 
any attention to her? 

KEARNEY [with gravely dissembled humor] Well, I ahsked 
that question too. I said. Why did you obey that lady*s 
orders instead of waiting for mine.? They said they didnt 
see exacdy how they could refuse. I ahsked whether they 
cawnsidered that discipline. They said. Well, sir, will you 
talk to the lady yourself next time? 

LADY CICELY. I'm SO sorry. But you know. Captain, the 
one thing that one misses on board a man-of-war is a 
woman. 

KEARNEY. We oftcn feel that deprivation verry keenly. 
Lady Waynflete. 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 287 

LADY CICELY. My unclc is first Lord of the Admiralty; 
and I am always telling him what a scandal it is that an 
English captain should be forbidden to take his wife on 
board to look after the ship. 

KEARNEY. Stranger still. Lady Waynflete, he is not for- 
bidden to take any other lady. Yours is an extraordinairy 
country — to an Amerrican. 

LADY CICELY. But it's most scrious. Captain. The poor 
men go melancholy mad, and ram each other's ships and 
do all sorts of things. 

SIR HOWARD. Cicely: I beg you will not talk nonsense 
to Captain Kearney. Your ideas on some subjects are really 
hardly decorous. 

LADY CICELY [/^ Kearney\ Thats what English people 
are like. Captain Kearney. They wont hear of anything 
concerning you poor sailors except Nelson and Trafalgar. 
You understand me, dont you? 

KEARNEY [gail^intiy] I cawnsider that you have more 
sense in your wedding ring finger than the British Ahdmiralty 
has in its whole cawnstitootion. Lady Waynflete. 

LADY CICELY, Of coursc I havc. Sailors always under- 
stand things. 

The bluejacket reappears. 

BLUEJACKET \jo Lady Cicely\ Prisoners coming up the 
hill, marm. 

KEARNEY ^[turning sharply on him] Who sent you in to 
say that? 

BLUEJACKET [cdlmly'] British lady's orders, sir. [He goes 
out, unruffied, leavi?ig Kearney dumbfounded], 

SIR HOWARD [contemplating Kearney* s expression with 
dismay] I am really very sorry, Captain Kearney. I am quite 
aware that Lady Cicely has no right whatever to give orders 
to your men. 

LADY CICELY. I didnt give orders: I just asked him. 
He has such a nice face! Dont you think so. Captain 
Kearney? \_He gasps, speechless]. And now will you excuse 



288 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

me a moment. I want to speak to somebody before the 
inquiry begins. \_Sbe hwries out] . 

KEARNEY. There is sertnly a wonderful chahm about the 
British aristocracy. Sir Howard Hallam. Are they all like 
that? [//^ takes the presidential chair]. 

SIR HOWARD [resuming his seat on Kearney* s right] 
Fortunately not. Captain Kearney. Half a dozen such 
women would make an end of law in England in six 
months. 

T^he bluejacket comes to the door again. 

BLUEJACKET. All ready, sir. 

KEARNEY. Vcrry good, /'m waiting. 

The bluejacket turns and intimates this to those without. 
The officers of the Santiago enter. 

SIR HOWARD [rising and bobbitig to them in a judicial 
manner] Good morning, gentlemen. 

They acknowledge the greeting rather shyly, bowing or 
touching their capsy and stand in a group behind Kearney. 

KEARNEY [to Sir Howard] You will be glahd to hear 
that I have a verry good account of one of our prisoners 
from our chahplain, who visited them in the gaol. He has 
expressed a wish to be cawnverted to Episcopalianism. 

SIR HOWARD [drily] Yes, I think I know him. 

KEARNEY. Bring in the prisoners. 

BLUEJACKET [at the door] They are engaged with the 
British lady, sir. Shall I ask her — 

KEARNEY \_jumping up and exploding in storm piercing 
tones] Bring in the prisoners. Tell the lady those are my 
orders. Do you hear? Tell her so. [The bluejacket goes out 
dubiously. The officers look at one another in mute comment on 
the unaccountable pepperiness of their commander] . 

SIR HOWARD [suavely] Mr Rankin will be present, I 
presume. 

KEARNEY [angrily] Rahnkin! Who is Rahnkin? 

SIR HOWARD, Our host the missionary. 

KEARNEY [subsiding unwillingly] Oh! Rahnkin, is he? 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 289 

He'd better look sharp or he'll be late. \_Again exploding\ 
What are they doing with those prisoners? 

Rankin hurries in, and takes his place near Sir Howard, 

SIR HOWARD. This is Mr Rankin, Captain Kearney. 

RANKIN. Excuse my delay. Captain Kearney. The leddy 
sent me on an errand. \_Kearney gruntsl^. I thoaght I should 
be late. But the first thing I heard when I arrived was 
your officer giving your compliments to Leddy Ceecily, 
and would she kindly allow the prisoners to come in, as you 
were anxious to see her again. Then I knew I was in time. 

KEARNEY. Oh, that was it, was it? May I ask, sir, did 
you notice any sign on Lady Waynflete's part of cawmplying 
with that verry moderate request. 

LADY CICELY \outside^ Coming, coming. 

The prisoners are brought in by a guard of armed blue- 
jackets. Drinkwater first, again elaborately clean, and con- 
veying by a virtuous and steadfast smirk a cheerful confidence 
in his innocence. Johnson solid and inexpressive, Redbrook 
unconcerned and debonair, Marzo uneasy. These four form a 
little group together on the captain* s left. The rest wait 
unintelligent ly on Providence in a row against the wall on the 
same side, shepherded by the bluejackets. The first bluejacket, 
a petty ofiicer, posts himself on the captain* s right, behind 
Rankin and Sir Howard. Finally Brassbound appears with 
Lady Cicely en his arm. He is in fashionable frock coat and 
trousers, spotless collar and cuffs, and elegant boots. He 
carries a glossy tall hat in his hand. To an unsophisticated 
eye, the change is monstrous and appalling; and its effect on 
himself is so unmanning that he is quite out of countenance — 
a shaven Samson. Lady Cicely, however, is greatly pleased 
with it ; and the rest regard it as an unquestionable improve- 
ment. The officers fall back gallantly to allow her to pass, 
Kearney rises to receive her, and stares zvith some surprise at 
Brassbound as she stops at the table on his left. Sir Howard 
rises punctiliously when Kearney rises and sits when he sits. 

KEARNEY. Is this another gentleman of your party, Lady 



290 Three Plays for Puritans Act in 

Waynflete? I presume I met you lahst night, sir, on board 
the yacht. 

BRASSBOUND. No. I am your prisoner. My name is 
Brassbound. 

DRiNKWATER [offictously] Kcpn Brarsbahnd, of the 
schooner Thenksgiv — 

REDBROOK \_hastily\ Shut up, you fool. \^He elbows Drift k- 
water into the background'^ . 

KEARNEY [surprised and rather suspicious~\ Well, I hardly 
understahnd this. However, if you are Captain Brassbound, 
you can take your place with the rest. [^Brassbound joins 
Redbrook and Johnson. Kearney sits down again, after 
inviting Lady Cicely, with a solemn gesture, to take the 
vacant chair~\. Now let me see. You are a man of experience 
in these matters. Sir Howard Hallam. If you had to con- 
duct this business, how would you start? 

LADY CICELY. He'd Call on the counsel for the prosecu- 
tion, wouldnt you, Howard? 

SIR HOWARD. But there is no counsel for the prosecution. 
Cicely. 

LADY CICELY. Oh ycs there is. I'm counsel for the 
prosecution. You mustnt let Sir Howard make a speech. 
Captain Kearney: his doctors have positively forbidden 
anything of that sort. Will you begin with me? 

KEARNEY. By your leave. Lady Waynflete, I think I 
will just begin with myself. Sailor fashion will do as well 
here as lawyer fashion. 

LADY CICELY. Evcr SO much better, dear Captain 
Kearney. [Silence, Kearney composes himself to speak. She 
breaks out again\ . You look so nice as a judge! 

Jl general smile. Drinkwater splutters into a half sup- 
pressed laugh. 

REDBROOK [in a fierce whisper"^ Shut up, you fool, will 
you? [Again he pushes him back with a furtive kick^ 

SIR HOWARD [remonstrating\ Cicely ! 

KEARNEY [grimly keeping his countenance^ Your ladyship's 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 291 

cawmpliments will be in order at a later stage. Captain 
Brassbound: the position is this. My ship, the United 
States cruiser Santiago, was spoken ofF Mogador lahst 
Thursday by the yacht Redgauntlet. The owner of the 
aforesaid yacht, who is not present through having sprained 
his ahnkle, gave me sertn information. In cawnsequence 
of that information the Santiago made the twenty knots to 
Mogador Harbor inside of fifty seven minutes. Before noon 
next day a messenger of mine gave the Cadi of the district 
sertn information. In cawnsequence of that information the 
Cadi stimulated himself to some ten knots an hour, and 
lodged you and your men in Mogador jail at my disposal. 
The Cadi then went back to his mountain fahstnesses; so 
we shall not have the pleasure of his company here today. 
Do you follow me so far? 

BRASSBOUND. Ycs. I know what you did and what the 
Cadi did. The point is, why did you do it? 

KEARNEY. With doo paticnce we shall come to that 
presently. Mr Rahnkin: will you kindly take up the parable? 

RANKIN. On the very day that Sir Howrrd and Lady 
Cicely started on their excursion I was applied to for medi- 
cine by a follower of the Sheikh Sidi el Assif He told me 
I should never see Sir Howrrd again, because his master 
knew he was a Christian and would take him out of the 
hands of Captain Brassbound. I hurried on board the yacht 
and told the owner to scour the coast for a gunboat or 
cruiser to come into the harbor and put persuasion on the 
authorities. \_Sir Hozuard turns and looks at Rankin with a 
sudden doubt of his integrity as a witness'^ . 

KEARNEY. But I uudcrstood from our chahplain that you 
reported Captain Brassbound as in league with the Sheikh 
to deliver Sir Howard up to him. 

RANKIN. That was my first hasty conclusion. Captain 
Kearney. But it appears that the compact between them 
was that Captain Brassbound should escort travellers under 
the Sheikh's proteciion at a certain payment per head, pro- 



292 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

vided none of them were Christians. As I understand it, 
he tried to smuggle Sir Howrrd through under this com- 
pact, and the Sheikh found him out. 

DRiNKWATER. Rawt, gavucr. Thets jest ah it wors. The 
Kepn — 

REDBROOK [again suppresshig him~\ Shut up, you fool, I 
tell you. 

SIR HOWARD [to Rankw] May I ask have you had any 
conversation with Lady Cicely on this subject.^ 

RANKIN [ria2ve/y~\ Yes. \_Sir Howard grunts emphatically ^ 
as who should say ''I thought so.^^ Rankin continues y address- 
ing the court^ May I say how sorry I am that there are so 
few chairs. Captain and gentlemen. 

KEARNEY [with genial American courtesy'] Oh, thats all 
right, Mr Rahnkin. Well, I see no harm so far: its human 
fawlly, but not human crime. Now the counsel for the 
prosecution can proceed to prosecute. The floor is yours. 
Lady Waynflete. 

LADY CICELY [rising^ I can only tell you the exact 
truth — 

DRINKWATER \involuntarily\ Naow, downtdo thet, lidy — 

REDBROOK \as before] Shut up, you fool, will you. 

LADY CICELY. We had a most delightful trip in the hills; 
and Captain Brassbound's men could not have been nicer — 
I must say that for them — until we saw a tribe of Arabs — 
such nice looking men! — and then the poor things were 
frightened. 

KEARNEY. The Arabs? 

LADY CICELY. Noi Arabs are never frightened. The es- 
cort, of course: escorts are always frightened. I wanted to 
speak to the Arab chief; but Captain Brassbound cruelly 
shot his horse; and the chief shot the Count; and then — 

KEARNEY. The Couut! What Count? 

LADY CICELY. Marzo. Thats Marzo \_pointing to Marzo, 
who grins and touches his forehead] . 

KEARNEY [slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected profu- 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 293 

sion of incident and character in her story] Well, what 
happened then? 

LADY CICELY. Then the escort ran away — all escorts 
do — and dragged me into the castle, which you really ought 
to make them clean and whitewash thoroughly. Captain 
Kearney. Then Captain Brassbound and Sir Howard 
turned out to be related to one another [^Sensation'] ; and then 
of course there was a quarrel. The Hallams always quarrel. 

SIR HOWARD [rising to protest'^ Cicely! Captain Kearney: 
this man told me — 

LADY CICELY ^szvi/t/y interrupting him\ You mustnt say 
what people told you: its not evidence. \_Sir Howard chokes 
with indignation], 

KEARNEY [r/j/w/y] Allow the lady to pro-ceed. Sir 
Howard Hallam. 

SIR HOWARD [recovering his self-control with a gulp, and 
resuming his seat] I beg your pardon. Captain Kearney. 

LADY CICELY. Then Sidi came. 

KEARNEY. Sidney! Who was Sidney.'' 

LADY CICELY. No, Sidi. The Sheikh. Sidi el Assif. A 
noble creature, with such a fine face! He fell in love with 
me at first sight — 

SIR HOWARD [remonstrating^^ Cicely! 

LADY CICELY. He did: you know he did. You told me 
to tell the exact truth. 

KEARNEY. I Can readily believe it, madam. Proceed. 

LADY CICELY. Well, that put the poor fellow into a most 
cruel dilemma. You see, he could claim to carry off Sir 
Howard, because Sir Howard is a Christian. But as I am 
only a woman, he had no claim to me. 

KEARNEY [somewhat sternly, suspecting Lady Cicely of 
aristocratic atheism] But you are a Christian woman. 

LADY CICELY. No: the Arabs dont count women. They 
dont believe we have any souls. 

RANKIN. That is true, Captain: the poor benighted 
creatures ! 



294 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

LADY CICELY. Well, what was he to do? He wasnt in 
love with Sir Howard; and he was in love with me. So he 
naturally offered to swop Sir Howard for me. Dont you 
think that was nice of him. Captain Kearney? 

KEARNEY. I should have done the same myself. Lady 
Waynflete. Proceed. 

LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound, I must say, was 
nobleness itself, in spite of the quarrel between himself and 
Sir Howard. He refused to give up either of us, and was 
on the point of fighting for us when in came the Cadi 
with your most amusing and delightful letter, captain, and 
bundled us all back to Mogador after calling my poor Sidi 
the most dreadful names, and putting all the blame on 
Captain Brassbound. So here we are. Now, Howard, isnt 
that the exact truth, every word of it? 

SIR HOWARD. It is the truth. Cicely, and nothing but the 
truth. But the English law requires a witness to tell the 
whole truth. 

LADY CICELY. What nonscnsc! As if anybody ever knew 
the whole truth about anything! [Sitting dozvfiy much hurt 
a?id discouraged^ I'm sorry you wish Captain Kearney to 
understand that I am an untruthful witness. 

SIR HOWARD. No: but — 

LADY CICELY. Very well, then: please dont say things 
that convey that impression. 

KEARNEY. But Sir Howard told me yesterday that 
Captain Brassbound threatened to sell him into slavery. 

LADY CICELY [springing up again] Did Sir Howard tell 
you the things he said about Captain Brassbound' s mother? 
\_Renewed sensation~\ . I told you they quarrelled, Captain 
Kearney. I said so, didnt I? 

REDBROOK \j:risply\ Distinctly. \_Drinkzvater opens his 
mouth to corroborate'] . Shut up, you fool. 

LADY CICELY. Of coursc I did. Now, Captain Kearney, 
do you want me — does Sir Howard want me — does 
anybody want me to go into the details of that shocking 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 295 

family quarrel? Am I to stand here in the absence of any 
individual of my own sex and repeat the language of two 
angry men? 

KEARNEY [^rising impressively\ The United States navy 
will have no hahnd in offering any violence to the pure 
instincts of womanhood. Lady Waynflete: I thahnk you 
for the delicacy with which you have given your evidence. 
\_Lady Cicely beams o?i him gratefully and sits down triumphant^. 
Captain Brassbound: I shall not hold you respawnsible for 
what you may have said when the English bench addressed 
you in the language of the English forecastle — [Sir Hoza- 
ard is about to protest^ No, Sir Howard Hallam: excuse 
me. In moments ofpahssion I have called a man that my- 
self. We are all glahd to find real flesh and blood beneath the 
ermine of the judge. We will all now drop a subject that 
should never have been broached in a lady's presence. 
[He resumes his seat, and adds, in a businesslike tone~\ Is 
there anything further before we release these men? 

BLUEJACKET. There are some dawcuments handed over 
by the Cadi, sir. He reckoned they were sort of magic 
spells. The chahplain ordered them to be reported to you 
and burnt, with your leave, sir. 

KEARNEY. What are they? 

BLUEJACKET [reading from a list'\ Four books, torn and 
dirty, made up of separate numbers, value each wawn 
penny, and entitled Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of 
London; The Skeleton Horseman — 

DRINK WATER [rushing forward in painful alarm and anx- 
iety^ It's maw lawbrary, gavner. Downt burn em. 

KEARNEY. Youll be [jetter without that sort of reading, 
my man. 

DRINK WATER [in intense distress ^ appealing to Lady Cicely'] 
Downt let em burn em, lidy. They dassent if you horder 
em not to. [With desperate eloquence'] Yer dunno wot them 
books is to me. They took me aht of the sawdid reeyelli- 
ties of the Worterleoo Rowd. They formed maw mawnd: 



2^6 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

they shaovved me sathink awgher than the squalor of a 
corster's lawf — 

REDBROOK [collarwg hiTn] Oh shut up, you fool. Get 
out. Hold your ton 

DRINK WATER [^frantically breaking from him'] Lidy, lidy: 
sy a word for me. Ev a feelin awt. [His tears choke him: 
he clasps his hands in dumb entreat j\ . 

LADY CICELY \touched~\ Dont burn his books. Captain. 
Let me give them back to him. 

KEARNEY. The books will be handed over to the lady. 

DRINK WATER \in a small voice"] Thenkyer, lidy. \He 
retires among his comrades ^ snivelling subduedlj\. 

REDBROOK ^aside to him as he passes] You silly ass, you. 
[Drinkwater sniffs and does not reply] . 

KEARNEY. I suppose you and your men accept this lady's 
account of what passed. Captain Brassbound. 

BRASSBOUND [gloomily] Yes. It is true — as far as it goes. 

KEARNEY [impatiently] Do you wawnt it to go any 
further? 

MARZO. She leave out something. Arab shoot me. She 
nurse me. She cure me. 

KEARNEY. And who are you, pray.? 

MARZO [seized with a sanctimonious desire to demonstrate 
his higher nature] Only dam thief. Dam liar. Dam rascal. 
She no lady. 

JOHNSON [revolted by the seeming insult to the English 
peerage from a low Italian] What? Whats that you say? 

MARZO. No lady nurse dam rascal. Only saint. She 
saint. She get me to heaven — get us all to heaven. We do 
what we like now. 

LADY CICELY. Indeed you will do nothing of the sort, 
Marzo, unless you like to behave yourself very nicely in- 
deed. What hour did you say we were to lunch at. Captain 
Kearney? 

KEARNEY. You rccall me to my dooty, Lady Waynfleet. 
My barge will be ready to take off you and Sir Howard to 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 297 

the Santiago at one o'clawk. [He rises'] . Captain Brass- 
bound: this innquery has elicited no reason why I should 
detain you or your men. I advise you to ahct as escort in 
future to heathens exclusively. Mr Rahnkin: I thahnk you 
in the name of the United States for the hospitahlity you 
have extended to us today; and 1 invite you to accompany 
me bahck to my ship with a view to lunch at half-past one. 
Gentlemen: we will wait on the governor of the gaol on 
our way to the harbor. [//^ goes outy following his officers y 
and followed by the bluejackets and the petty officer'] , 

SIR HOWARD \to Lady Cicely] Cicely: in the course of 
my professional career I have met with unscrupulous wit- 
nesses, and, I am sorry to say, unscrupulous counsel also. 
But the combination of unscrupulous witness and unscrupu- 
lous counsel I have met today has taken away my breath. 
You have made me your accomplice in defeating justice. 

LADY CICELY. Ycs: amt you glad it's been defeated for 
once? \She takes his arm to go out with him]. Captain 
Brassbound: 1 will come back to say goodbye before I go. 
[ He nods gloomily. She goes out with Sir Howard^ following 
the Captain and his staff] . 

RANKIN \running to Brassbound and taking both his hands] 
I'm right glad yere cleared. I'll come back and have a 
crack with ye when yon lunch is over. God bless ye. \He 
goes out quickly] . 

Brassbound and his men, left by themselves in the room, 
free and unobserved, go straight out of their senses. They 
laugh; they dance; they embrace one another; they set to 
partners and waltz clumsily; they shake hands repeatedly and 
maudlinly. Three only retain some sort of self-possession. 
MarzOy proud of having successfully thrust himself into a 
leading part in the recent proceedings and made a dramatic 
speech, inflates his chest, curls his scanty moustache, and throws 
himself into a swaggering pose, chin up and right foot forward, 
despising the emotional English barbarians around him. 
Brassbound'' s eyes and the working of his mouth shew that he 



298 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill 

is infected with the general excitement,' but he bridles himself 
savagely. Redbrook, trained to affect indifference, grins cyn- 
ically; winks at Brassbound; and finally relieves himself by 
assuming the character of a circus ringmaster, flourishing an 
imaginary whip and egging on the rest to wilder exertions. 
A climax is reached when Drinkwater, let loose without a 
stain on his character for the second time, is rapt by belief in 
his star into an ecstasy in which, scorning all partnership, he 
becomes as it were a whirling dervish, and executes so miracu- 
lous a clog dance that the others gradually cease their slower 
antics to stare at him. 

BRASSBOUND \^tearing off his hat and striding forward as 
Drinkwater collapses, exhausted, and is picked up by Red- 
brook'\ Now to get rid of this respectable clobber and feel 
like a man again. Stand by, all hands, to jump on the cap- 
taints tall hat. \^He puts the hat down and prepares to jump 
on it. The effect is startling, and takes him completely aback. 
His followers, far from appreciating his iconoclasm, are 
shocked into scandalized sobriety, except Redbrook, who is 
intensely tickled by their prudery^. 

DRINKWATER. Naow, look eah, kepn: that ynt rawt. 
Dror a lawn somewhere. 

JOHNSON. I say nothin agen a bit of fun, Capn; but lets 
be gentlemen. 

REDBROOK. I suggest to you, Brassbound, that the clobber 
belongs to Lady Sis. Aint you going to give it back to her? 

BRASSBOUND [picking up the hat and brushing the dust off 
it anxiously'] Thats true. I'm a fool. All the same, she 
shall not see me again like this. \_He pulls off the coat and 
waistcoat together]. Does any man here know how to fold 
up this sort of thing properly ? 

REDBROOK. Allow me, governor. [He takes the coat and 
waistcoat to the table, and folds them up] . 

BRASSBOUND [looscfiing his collar and the front of his shirt] 
Brandyfaced Jack: youre looking at these studs. I know 
whats in your mind. 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 299 

DRiNKWATER \tndignantl{\ Naow yer downt: nort a bit 
on it. Wots in maw mawnd is secrifawce, seolf-secrifawce. 

BRASSBOUND. If onc brass pin of that lady's property is 
missing, I'll hang you with my own hands at the gaff of 
the Thanksgiving — and would, if she were lying under the 
guns of all the fleets in Europe. \He pulls off the shirt and 
sta?ids in his blue jersey^ with his hair ruffled. He passes his 
hand through it and exclaims^ Now I am half a man, at 
any rate. 

REDBROOK. A horrible combination, governor: church- 
warden from the waist down, and the rest pirate. Lady Sis 
wont speak to you in it. 

BRASSBOUND. I'll change altogether. \He leaves the room 
to get his own trousers^ 

REDBROOK \joftlj\ Look here, Johnson, and gents 
generally. [They gather about hinf\. Spose she takes him 
back to England! 

MARZO \_trying to repeat his success'] Im! Im only dam 
pirate. She saint, I tell you — no take any man nowhere. 

JOHNSON [severely~\ Dont you be a ignorant and immoral 
foreigner. ^The rebuke is well received; and Marzo is hustled 
into the background and extinguished] . She wont take him 
for harm; but she might take him for good. And then where 
should we be.'' 

DRINKWATER. Brarsbahnd ynt the ownly kepn in the 
world. Wot mikes a kepn is brines an knollidge o lawf. It 
ynt thet thers naow sitch pusson: its thet you dunno where 
to look fr im. [ The implication that he ii such a person is so 
intolerable that they receive it with a prolonged burst of 
booing] . 

BRASSBOUND [returning in his own clothes, getting into his 
jacket as he comes]. Stand by, all. \They start asunder 
guiltily, and wait for orders]. Redbrook: you pack that 
clobber in the lady's portmanteau, and put it aboard the 
yacht for her. Johnson: you take all hands aboard the 
Thanksgiving; look through the stores; weigh anchor; and 



joo Three Plays for Puritans Act ill 

make all ready for sea. Then send Jack to wait for me at 
the slip with a boat; and give me a gunfire for a signal. 
Lose no time. 

JOHNSON. Ay, ay, sir. All aboard, mates. 

ALL. Ay, ay. [Tbey rush out tumultuous I j\. 

When they are gone, Brassbound sits down at the end of 
the tabky with his elbows on it and his head on his fistSy 
gloomily thinking. Then he takes from the breast pocket of his 
jacket a leather case, from which he extracts a scrappy packet 
of dirty letters and newspaper cuttings. These he throws on 
the table. Next comes a photograph in a cheap frame. He 
throws it down untenderly beside the papers; then folds his 
arms, and is looking at it with grim distaste when Lady Cicely 
enters. His back is towards her; and he does not hear her. 
Perceiving this, she shuts the door loudly enough to attract 
his attention. He starts up. 

LADY CICELY \coming to the opposite end of the table'\ So 
youve taken off all my beautiful clothes ! 

BRASSBOUND. Your brother's, you mean. A man should 
wear his own clothes; and a man should tell his own lies. 
I'm sorry you had to tell mine for me today. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, women spend half their lives telling 
little lies for men, and sometimes big ones. We're used to 
it. But mind! I dont admit that I told any today. 

BRASSBOUND. How did you square my uncle.? 

LADY CICELY. I dont Understand the expression. 

BRASSBOUND. I mean — 

LADY CICELY. I'm afraid we havnt time to go into what 
you mean before lunch. I want to speak to you about your 
future. May I? 

BRASSBOUND [darkening a little, but politely^ Sit down. 
\She sits down. So does he^. 

LADY CICELY. What are your plans? 

BRASSBOUND. I havc DO plans. You will hear a gun fired 
in the harbor presently. That will mean that the Thanks- 
giving's anchor's weighed and that she is waiting for her 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 301 

captain to put out to sea. And her captain doesnt know 
now whether to turn her head north or south. 

LADY CICELY. Why not north for England.'' 

BRASSBOUND. Why not south for the Pole.? 

LADY CICELY. But you must do something with yourself, 

BRASSBOUND \settHng himself with his fists and elbows 
weightily on the table and looking straight and pozuer fully at her^ 
Look you: when you and I first met, I was a man with a 
purpose. I stood alone: I saddled no friend, woman or man, 
with that purpose, because it was against law, against religion, 
against my own credit and safety. But I believed in it; 
and I stood alone for it, as a man should stand for his 
belief, against law and religion as much as against wicked- 
ness and selfishness. Whatever I may be, I am none of 
your fairweather sailors thatll do nothing for their creed 
but go to Heaven for it. I was ready to go to hell for 
mine. Perhaps you dont understand that. 

LADY CICELY. Oh bless you, yes. It's so very like a cer- 
tain sort of man. 

BRASSBOUND. I darcsay; but I've not met many of that 
sort. Anyhow, that was what I was like. I dont say I was 
happy in it; but I wasnt unhappy, because I wasnt drifting. 
I was steering a course and had work in hand. Give a man 
health and a course to steer; and he'll never stop to trouble 
about whether he's happy or not. 

LADY CICELY. Sometimes he wont even stop to trouble 
about whether other people are happy or not. 

BRASSBOUND. 1 dont deny that: nothing makes a man so 
selfish as work. But I was not self-seeking: it seemed to 
me that I had put justice above self. I tell you life meant 
something to me then. Do you see that dirty little bundle 
of scraps of paper? 

LADY CICELY. What are they.? 

BRASSBOUND. Accounts cut out of newspapers . Speeches 
made by my uncle at charitable dinners, or sentencing men 
to death — pious, highminded speeches by a man who was 



302 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

to me a thief and a murderer! To my mind they were 
more weighty, more momentous, better revelations of the 
wickedness of law and respectability than the book of the 
prophet Amos. What are they now? [He quietly tears the 
newspaper cuttings into little fragments and throws them away, 
looking fixedly at her meanwhile'^. 

LADY CICELY. Well, thats a comfort, at all events. 

BRASSBOUND. Yes; but it's a part of my life gone: your 
doing, remember. What have I left? See here! \he takes 
up the letters'^ the letters my uncle wrote to my mother, 
with her comments on their cold drawn insolence, their 
treachery and cruelty. And the piteous letters she wrote to 
him later on, returned unopened. Must they go too? 

LADY CICELY \uneasily\ I cant ask you to destroy your 
mother's letters. 

BRASSBOUND. Why not, now that you have taken the 
meaning out of them? \He tears them'\. Is that a comfort 
too? 

LADY CICELY. It*s a little sad; but perhaps it is best so. 

BRASSBOUND. That leaves one relic: her portrait. \He 
plucks the photograph out of its cheap case\ 

LADY CICELY \with vivid curiosity'\ Oh, let me see. \He 
hands it to her. Before she can control herself her expression 
changes to one of unmistakable disappointment and repulsion']. 

BRASSBOUND \_with a single sardonic cachinnation] Ha! 
You expected something better than that. Well, youre 
right. Her face does not look well opposite yours. 

LADY CICELY [distressed'\ I said nothing. 

BRASSBOUND. What could you say? [^He takes back the 
portrait: she relinquishes it without a word. He looks at it; 
shakes his head; and takes it quietly between his finger and 
thumb to tear it\ . 

LADY CICELY \jtaying his hand] Oh, not your mother's 
picture! 

BRASSBOUND. If that were your picture, would you like 
your son to keep it for younger and better women to see? 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 303 

LADY CICELY ^releasing his hand^ Oh, you are dreadful! 
Tear it, tear it. [6"^^ covers her eyes for a moment to shut 
out the sigh t^ 

BRASSBOUND \t earing it quietly] You killed her ibr me 
that day in the castle; and I am better without her. [//i? 
throws away the fragments'] . Now everything is gone. You 
have taken the old meaning out of my life; but you have 
put no new meaning into it. I can see that you have some 
clue to the world that makes all its difficulties easy for you; 
but I'm not clever enough to seize it. Youve lamed me by 
shewing me that I take life the wrong way when I'm left to 
myself. 

LADY CICELY. Oh no. Why do you say that? 

BRASSBOUND. What else can I say? See what Ive done! 
My uncle is no worse a man than myself — better, most 
likely; for he has a better head and a higher place. Well, 
I took him for a villain out of a storybook. My mother 
would have opened anybody else's eyes: she shut mine. 
I'm a stupider man than Brandyfaced Jack even; for he got 
his romantic nonsense out of his penny numbers and such 
like trash; but I got just the same nonsense out of life and 
experience. \^haking his head] It was vulgar — vulgar. 
I see that now; for youve opened my eyes to the past; but 
what good is that for the future? What am I to do? Where 
am I to go? 

LADY CICELY. It's quitc simple. Do whatever you like. 
Thats what I always do. 

BRASSBOUND. That answer is no good to me. What I 
like is to have something to do; and I have nothing. You 
might as well talk like the missionary and tell me to do my 
duty. 

LADY CICELY "[^uickly] Oh no thank you. Ive had quite 
enough of your duty, and Howard's duty. Where would 
you both be now if I'd let you do it? 

BRASSBOUND. We'd have been somewhere, at all events. 
It seems to me that now I am nowhere. 



304 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

LADY CICELY. But amt you coming back to England 
with us? 

BRASSBOUND. What for? 

LADY CICELY. Why, to make the most of your oppor- 
tunities. 

BRASSBOUND. What opportunities? 

LADY CICELY. Dout you Understand that when you are 
the nephew of a great bigwig, and have influential con- 
nexions, and good friends among them, lots of things can 
be done for you that are never done for ordinary ship 
captains? 

BRASSBOUND. Ah; but I'm not an aristocrat, you see. 
And like most poor men, I'm proud. I dont like being 
patronized. 

LADY CICELY. What is the use of saying that? In my 
world, which is now your world — our world — getting 
patronage is the whole art of life. A man cant have a career 
without it. 

BRASSBOUND. In my world a man can navigate a ship 
and get his living by it. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, I See youre one of the Idealists — 
the Impossibilists! We have them, too, occasionally, in 
our world. There's only one thing to be done with them. 

BRASSBOUND. Whats that? 

LADY CICELY. Marry them straight off to some girl with 
enough money for them, and plenty of sentiment. Thats 
their fate. 

BRASSBOUND. Youve Spoiled even that chance for me. 
Do you think I could look at any ordinary woman after 
you? You seem to be able to make me do pretty well 
what you like; but you cant make me marry anybody but 
yourself. 

LADY CICELY. Do you know. Captain Paquito, that Ive 
married no less than seventeen men \_Bra5sb0und staves'^ to 
other women. And they all opened the subject by saying 
that they would never marry anybody but me. 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 305 

BRASSBOUND. Then I shall be the first man you ever 
found to stand to his word. 

LADY CICELY \_part pkosedy part amused, part sympathetic^ 
Do you really want a wife? 

BRASSBOUND. I Want a commander. Dont undervalue 
me: I am a good man when I have a good leader. I have 
courage: I have determination: I'm not a drinker: I can 
command a schooner and a shore party if I cant command 
a ship or an army. When work is put upon me, I turn 
neither to save my life nor to fill my pocket. Gordon 
trusted me; and he never regretted it. If you trust me, you 
shant regret it. All the same, theres something v/anting 
in me: I suppose I'm stupid. 

LADY CICELY. Oh, yourc not stupid. 

BRASSBOUND. Ycs I am. Since you saw me for the first 
time in that garden, youve heard me say nothing clever. 
And Ive heard you say nothing that didnt make me laugh, 
or make me feel friendly, as well as telling me what to think 
and what to do. Thats what I mean by real cleverness. 
Well, I havnt got it. I can give an order wiien I know 
what order to give. I can make men obey it, willing or 
unwilling. But I'm stupid, I tell you: stupid. When theres 
no Gordon to command me, I cant think of what to do. 
Left to myself, Ive become half a brigand. I can kick that 
little gutterscrub Drinkwater; but I find myself doing what 
he puts into my head because I cant think of anything else. 
When you came, I took your orders as naturally as I took 
Gordon's, though I little thought my next commander would 
be a woman. I want to take service under you. And theres 
no way in which that can be done except marrying you. 
Will you let me do it? 

LADY CICELY. I'm afraid you dont quite know how odd 
a match it would be for me according to the ideas of Eng- 
lish society. 

BRASSBOUND. I carc nothing about English society: let 
it mind its own business. 



3o6 Three Plays for Puritans Act III 

LADY CICELY [^rismg, a little alarmed'^ Captain Paquito: 
I am not in love with you. 

BRASSBOUND \also rising, with his gaze still steadfastly on 
her'\ I didnt suppose you were: the commander is not 
usually in love with his subordinate. 

LADY CICELY. Nor the subordinate with the commander. 

BRASSBOUND \_assenting firmly\ Nor the subordinate with 
the commander. 

LADY CICELY \learning for the first time in her life what 
terror /V, as she finds that he is unconsciously mesmerizing 
her^ Oh, you are dangerous! 

BRASSBOUND. Comc: are you in love with anybody else? 
Thats the question. 

LADY CICELY ^shaking her head] I have never been in 
love with any real person; and I never shall. How could 
I manage people if I had that mad little bit of self left in 
me.? Thats my secret. 

BRASSBOUND. Then throw away the last bit of self. 
Marry me. 

LADY CICELY \_z'ainly struggling to recall her wandering 
will'] Must 1} 

BRASSBOUND. There is no must. You can. I ask you to. 
My fate depends on it. 

LADY CICELY. It's frightful; fof I dont mean to — dont 
wish to. 

BRASSBOUND. But you will. 

LADY CICELY [_quite lost, slowly stretches out her hand to 
give it to him'] I — [Gunfire from the Thanksgiving. His eyes 
dilate. It wakes her from her trance] What is that? 

BRASSBOUND. It is farewcll. Rescue for you — safety, 
freedom! You were made to be something better than the 
wife of Black Paquito. \_He kneels and takes her hands] You 
can do no more for me now: I have blundered somehow 
on the secret of command at last \he kisses her hands]', thanks 
for that, and for a man's power and purpose restored and 
righted. And farewell, farewell, farewell. 



Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 307 

LADY CICELY [//? a Strange ecstasy y holding his hands as he 
rises'\ Oh, farewell. With my heart's deepest feeling, fare- 
well, farewell. 

BRASSBOUND. With my heart's noblest honor and triumph, 
farewell. [//^ turns and Jlies~\. 

LADY CICELY. How glorious ! how glorious ! And what 
an escape! 



NOTES TO CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND^S 
CONVERSION 

Sources of the Play 

I claim as a notable merit in the authorship of this play 
that I have been intelligent enough to steal its scenery, its 
surroundings, its atmosphere, its geography, its knowledge 
of the east, its fascinating Cadis and Krooboys and Sheikhs 
and mud castles from an excellent book of philosophic 
travel and vivid adventure entitled Mogreb-el-Acksa 
(Morocco the Most Holy) by Cunninghame Graham. My 
own first hand knowledge of Morocco is based on a morn- 
ing's walk through Tangier, and a cursory observation of 
the coast through a binocular from the deck of an Orient 
steamer, both later in date than the writing of the play. 

Cunninghame Graham is the hero of his own book; but 
I have not made him the hero of my play, because so 
incredible a personage must have destroyed its likelihood — 
such as it is. There are moments when I do not myself 
believe in his existence. And yet he must be real; for I 
have seen him with these eyes; and I am one of the few men 
living who can decipher the curious alphabet in which he 
writes his private letters. The man is on public record too. 
The battle of Trafalgar Square, in which he personally and 
bodily assailed civilization as represented by the concentrated 
military and constabular forces of the capital of the world, 
can scarcely be forgotten by the more discreet spectators, 
of whom I was one. On that occasion civilization, qualita- 
tively his inferior, was quantitatively so hugely in excess of 

308 



Notes 309 

him that it put him in prison, but had not sense enough to 
keep him there. Yet his getting out of prison was as nothing 
compared to his getting into the House of Commons. How 
he did it I know not; but the thing certainly happened, 
somehow. That he made pregnant utterances as a legislator 
may be taken as proved by the keen philosophy of the travels 
and tales he has since tossed to us; but the House, strong in 
stupidity, did not understand him until in an inspired 
moment he voiced a universal impulse by bluntly damning 
its hypocrisy. Of all the eloquence of that silly parliament, 
there remains only one single damn. It has survived the 
front bench speeches of the eighties as the word of Cervantes 
survives the oraculations of the Dons and Deys who put 
him, too, in prison. The shocked House demanded that he 
should withdraw his cruel word. **I never withdraw," 
said he; and I promptly stole the potent phrase for the sake 
of its perfect style, and used it as a cockade for the Bulgarian 
hero of Arms and the Man. The theft prospered; and I 
naturally take the first opportunity of repeating it. In what 
other Lepantos besides Trafalgar Square Cunninghame 
Graham has fought, I cannot tell. He is a fascinating 
mystery to a sedentary person like myself. The horse, a 
dangerous animal whom, when I cannot avoid, I propitiate 
with apples and sugar, he bestrides and dominates fearlessly, 
yet with a true republican sense of the rights of the fourlegged 
fellowcreature whose martyrdom, and man's shame therein, 
he has told most powerfully in his Calvary, a tale with an 
edge that will cut the soft cruel hearts and strike fire from 
the hard kind ones. He handles the other lethal weapons as 
familiarly as the pen: medieval sword and modern Mauser 
are to him as umbrellas and kodaks are to me. His tales of 
adventure have the true Cervantes touch of the man who 
has been there — so refreshingly different from the scenes 
imagined by bloody-minded clerks who escape from their 
servitude into literature to tell us how men and cities are 
conceived in the counting house and the volunteer corps. 



3IO Captain Brassbound's Conversion 

He is, I understand, a Spanish hidalgo: hence the superbity 
of his portrait by Lavery (Velasquez being no longer avail- 
able). He is, I know, a Scotch laird. How he contrives to 
be authentically the two things at the same time is no more 
intelligible to me than the fact that everything that has ever 
happened to him seems to have happened in Paraguay or 
Texas instead of in Spain or Scotland. He is, I regret to 
add, an impenitent and unashamed dandy: such boots, such 
a hat, would have dazzled D'Orsay himself. With that hat 
he once saluted me in Regent St. when I was walking with 
my mother. Her interest was instantly kindled; and the 
following conversation ensued. "Who is that?" *'Cun- 
ninghame Graham." '* Nonsense! Cunninghame Graham 
is one of your Socialists: that man is a gentleman." This is 
the punishment of vanity, a fault I have myself always 
avoided, as I find conceit less troublesome and much less 
expensive. Later on somebody told him of Tarudant, a city 
in Morocco in which no Christian had ever set foot. Con- 
cluding at once that it must be an exceptionally desirable 
place to live in, he took ship and horse; changed the hat for 
a turban; and made straight for the sacred city, via Moga- 
dor. How he fared, and how he fell into the hands of the 
Cadi of Kintafi, who rightly held that there was more danger 
to Islam in one Cunninghame Graham than in a thousand 
Christians, may be learnt from his account of it in Mogreb- 
el-Acksa, without which Captain Brassbound's Conversion 
would never have been written. 

I am equally guiltless of any exercise of invention con- 
cerning the story of the West Indian estate which so very 
nearly serves as a peg to hang Captain Brassbound. To 
Mr Frederick Jackson of Hindhead, who, against all his 
principles, encourages and abets me in my career as a 
dramatist, I owe my knowledge of those main facts of the 
case which became public through an attempt to make the 
House of Commons act on them. This being so, I must 
add that the character of Captain Brassbound's mother, like 



Notes 311 

the recovery of the estate by the next heir, is an interpola- 
tion of my own. It is not, however, an invention. One 
of the evils of the pretence that our institutions represent 
abstract principles of justice instead of being mere social 
scaffolding is that persons of a certain temperament take the 
pretence seriously, and when the law is on the side of in- 
justice, will not accept the situation, and are driven mad by 
their vain struggle against it. Dickens has drawn the type 
in his Man from Shropshire in Bleak House. Most public 
men and all lawyers have been appealed to by victims of 
this sense of injustice — the most unhelpable of afflictions in 
a society like ours. 



ENGLISH AND AMERICAN DIALECTS. 

The fact that English is spelt conventionally and not 
phonetically makes the art of recording speech almost im- 
possible. What is more, it places the modern dramatist, 
who writes for America as well as England, in a most trying 
position. Take for example my American captain and my 
English lady. I have spelt the word conduce, as uttered 
by the American captain, as cawndooce, to suggest (very 
roughly) the American pronunciation to English readers. 
Then why not spell the same word, when uttered by Lady 
Cicely, as kerndewce, to suggest the English pronunciation 
to American readers? To this I have absolutely no defence: 
I can only plead that an author who lives in England neces- 
sarily loses his consciousness of the peculiarities of EngHsh 
speech, and sharpens his consciousness of the points in 
which American speech differs from it; so that it is more 
convenient to leave English peculiarities to be recorded by 
American authors. I must, however, most vehemently dis- 
claim any intention of suggesting that English pronunciation 
is authoritative and correct. My own tongue is neither 
American English nor English English, but Irish English; so I 



312 Captain Brassbound's Conversion 

am as nearly impartial in the matter as it is in human nature 
to be. Besides, there is no standard English pronunciation 
any more than there is an American one: in England every 
county has its catchwords, just as no doubt every state in 
the Union has. I cannot believe that the pioneer American, 
for example, can spare time to learn that last refinement of 
modern speech, the exquisite diphthong, a farfetched combi- 
nation of the French eu and the English e, with which a 
New Yorker pronounces such words as world, bird &c. I 
have spent months without success in trying to achieve glib- 
ness with it. 

To Felix Drinkwater also I owe some apology for im- 
plying that all his vowel pronunciations are unfashionable. 
They are very far from being so. As far as my social ex- 
perience goes (and I have kept very mixed company) there 
is no class in English society in which a good deal of Drink- 
water pronunciation does not pass unchallenged save by the 
expert phonetician. This is no mere rash and ignorant jibe 
of my own at the expense of my English neighbors. Aca- 
demic authority in the matter of English speech is repre- 
sented at present by Mr Henry Sweet, of the University of 
Oxford, whose Elementarbuch des gesprochenen Englisch, 
translated into his native language for the use of British 
islanders as a Primer of Spoken English, is the most accessi- 
ble standard work on the subject. In such words as plum, 
come, humbug, up, gun, etc., Mr Sweet's evidence is con- 
clusive. Ladies and gentlemen in Southern England pro- 
nounce them as plam, kam, hambag, ap, gan, etc., exactly 
as Felix Drinkwater does. I could not claim Mr Sweet's 
authority if I dared to whisper that such coster English as 
the rather pretty dahn tahn for down town, or the de- 
cidedly ugly cowcow for cocoa is current in very polite 
circles. The entire nation, costers and all, would un- 
doubtedly repudiate any such pronunciation as vulgar. All 
the same, if I were to attempt to represent current "smart" 
cockney speech as I have attempted to represent Drink- 



Notes 313 

water's, without the niceties of Mr Sweet's Romic alpha- 
bets, I am afraid I should often have to write dahn tahn 
and cowcow as being at least nearer to the actual sound 
than down town and cocoa. And this would give such 
offence that I should have to leave the country; for nothing 
annoys a native speaker of English more than a faithful set- 
ting down in phonetic spelling of the sounds he utters. He 
imagines that a departure from conventional spelling indicates 
a departure from the correct standard English of good society. 
Alas ! this correct standard English of good society is un- 
known to phoneticians. It is only one of the many fig- 
ments that bewilder our poor snobbish brains. No such 
thing exists; but what does that matter to people trained 
from infancy to make a point of honor of belief in abstrac- 
tions and incredibilities? And so I am compelled to hide 
Lady Cicely's speech under the veil of conventional orthog- 
raphy. 

I need not shield Drinkwater, because he will never 
read my book. So I have taken the liberty of making a 
special example of him, as far as that can be done without 
a phonetic alphabet, for the benefit of the mass of readers 
outside London who still form their notions of cockney 
dialect on Sam Wcller. When I came to London in 1876, 
the Sam Weller dialect had passed away so completely that 
I should have given it up as a literary fiction if I had not 
discovered it surviving in a Middlesex village, and heard of 
it from an Essex one. Some time in the eighties the late 
Andrew Tuer called attention in the Pall Mall Gazette to 
several peculiarities of modern cockney, and to the obsoles- 
cence of the Dickens dialect that was still being copied from 
book to book by authors who never dreamt of using their 
ears, much less of training them to listen. Then came Mr 
Anstey's cockney dialogues in Punch, a great advance, and 
Mr Chevalier's coster songs and patter. The Tompkins 
verses contributed by Mr Barry Pain to the London Daily 
Chronicle have also done something to bring the literary 



314 Captain Brassbound's Conversion 

convention for cockney English up to date. But Tompkins 
sometimes perpetrates horrible solecisms. He will pro- 
nounce face as fice, accurately enough; but he will rhyme 
it quite impossibly to nice, which Tompkins would pro- 
nounce as nawce: for example Mawl Enn Rowd for Mile 
End Road. This aw for i, which I have made Drinkwater 
use, is the latest stage of the old diphthongal oi, which Mr 
Chevalier still uses. Irish, Scotch and north country readers 
must remember that Drinkwater' s rs are absolutely unpro- 
nounced when they follow a vowel, though they modify the 
vowel very considerably. Thus, luggage is pronounced by 
him as laggige, but turn is not pronounced as tarn, but as 
teun with the eu sounded as in French. The London r 
seems thoroughly understood in America, with the result, 
however, that the use of the r by Artemus Ward and other 
American dialect writers causes Irish people to misread them 
grotesquely. I once saw the pronunciation ofmalheureux 
represented in a cockney handbook by mal-err-err: not at 
all a bad makeshift to instruct a Londoner, but out of the 
question elsewhere in the British Isles. In America, repre- 
sentations of English speech dwell too derisively on the 
dropped or interpolated h. American writers have appar- 
ently not noticed the fact that the south English h is not the 
same as the never-dropped Irish and American h, and that 
to ridicule an Englishman for dropping it is as absurd as to 
ridicule the whole French and Italian nation for doing the 
same. The American h, helped out by a general agreement 
to pronounce wh as hw, is tempestuously audible, and can- 
not be dropped without being immediately missed. The 
London h is so comparatively quiet at all times, and so com- 
pletely inaudible in wh, that it probably fell out of use simply 
by escaping the ears of children learning to speak. However 
that may be, it is kept alive only by the literate classes who 
are reminded constantly of its existence by seeing it on 
paper. Roughly speaking, I should say that in England he 
who bothers about his hs is a fool, and he who ridicules a 



Notes 3 1 5 

dropped h a snob. As to the interpolated h, my experience 
as a London vestryman has convinced me that it is often 
effective as a means of emphasis, and that the London 
language would be poorer w^ithout it. The objection to it is 
no more respectable than the objection of a street boy to a 
black man or to a lady in knickerbockers. 

I have made only the most perfunctory attempt to repre- 
sent the dialect of the missionary. There is no literary 
notation for the grave music of good Scotch. 

Blackdown. 
Auguit 1900 



THE END 



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